DECEPTION | MAFIA | THE LONDON CRIME KING | SIX

The London Crime King

I loved early mornings. I could have less than four hours of sleep and still summon an unfathomable amount of energy to climb out of bed at the crack of dawn to witness the incarnadine tinctures of sunrise.

Suppose you travelled further afield, three miles north, where acres of woodland unfurled behind the street of unneighbourly occupants. In that case, you will find me near the steady stream, perched on a coarse-grained rock, Arlo’s Sony Walkman cassette player and headphones in possession, relaxing in mother nature’s palm, escaping the realities of life.

It is the best part of any day, alone time, blissful quietude and simplicity itself. Everyone else is asleep, except the cawing birds rustling above in the highest branches of trees, leaving me alone with my thoughts to contend with, the only opportunity for self-reflection. It is necessary for change, to step back and think of ways to put the world to rights, to get my life in order, to try and understand why I mess up all the time.

I should be kinder to myself, but I am prone to anxiety, and when I fail to meet expectations, I hold myself accountable. I overthink whenever I fall short of perfectionism, when I disappoint the hand that feeds me, because I am a people pleaser, and people pleasers worry too much about the opinions of others, especially those responsible for your existence.

I want to be better if only I knew how.

Guilt and shame have eaten away at whatever confidence I had. I used to be happy, grateful, and full of life, but lately, morning, noon, and night, I feel unhappy, ungrateful and spiritless.

Worthless.

Dead inside.

A huge disappointment.

I don’t see the point in living anymore, not when I am so miserable, not when the light at the end of the tunnel has turned into ominous darkness.

How will my story end?

Will I face the river, the turbulent flow of water, to eliminate suffering once and for all?

Will I find the courage to swallow my mother’s pills instead of counting them every night before bed?

Will I step out in front of a moving vehicle rather than imagine how impactful the bonnet would feel against my body?

Will I ever be brave enough to defeat those who continue to hurt me?

A soft wind whispered through the scraggly ends of my hair. I pinched a blond strand between my thumb and forefinger, wondering why Yolanda hadn’t taken the hair clippers to it yet. It’s unlike her to let it grow to this length without making a fuss.

Yolanda.

My mother.

Is it possible to love and hate someone at the same time?

Is it wrong to visualise and crave the freedom I’d endure if she ceased to exist?

Is it weird that I care too much to find out?

I hate her.

But I love her.

I hate her.

But I don’t want anything bad to happen to her.

I hate her.

But I would never forgive myself for exposing her.

How do I heal from a toxic parent?

Will I be around long enough to find out?

I do love her, oddly enough, and I would never want anything bad to happen to her. I would cry if she died. I would mourn if she left me. I would miss the better side of her that I knew was still in there somewhere. But without her, there would be a light, even if faint, in the tunnel; without her, there would be oxygen, even if slight, in the here and now.

As the sun crested the horizon, I walked along the edge of the stream, hurling pebbles across the crystalline water. I never get too close for fear of falling and drowning. I might have experience with being held under the surface, but I don’t know how to swim.

“Town Called Malice” played on the cassette player, which seemed to throw a spring in my step. I amped the volume to full blast. The danceable beat had my feet moving on their own accord as I skirted the river bank. I loved music, preferably my father’s playlist, as it’s the only reminder of him I had, and when I am lonely or sad, there is something strangely satisfying about our memories. It’s a connection, a treasured keepsake locked away in the subconscious mind, for mornings like this one, when I am allowed to miss him. I could almost hear his voice as the lyrics belted in my ears. His low, gravelly voice. His wild, impish eyes. His wide, genuine smile.

“Better stop dreaming of the quiet life.” With an unshakable smile on my face, the type of smile that ached the cheekbones, I jumped boulders to cross the river, one slippery obstacle at a time, palms landing on the wet, grassy knoll when I reached the other side. I looked back, after a breather, impressed by the efforts to undertake what seemed like an impossible task. Dusting off my hands, I climbed the muddy slope into the forest through the thicket of trees. “And quit running from the runaway bus.”

Tweeting birds, navigating feathery wings, dispersed heavenward upon my abrupt arrival. Debris crunched beneath my feet as I watched them fly into the distance, the two spindly branches on the floor becoming improvised drumsticks.

“Cos time is short, and life is cruel.” Beating the sticks on nearby tree trunks, whipping through rooted shrubs and huge vines, I side-bounced to nowhere, lost in the beat. “But it’s up to us to change this town called malice.”

I remember when my father first bought the cassette. He took me to the garage and sat me on the workbench whilst playing with the newly purchased portable boombox. He put the song on repeat, a cold can of beer on standby, and told me how the lyrics evoked pleasant memories of his hometown. It would be his go-to song for months later when he worked on vehicles under the evening sun, for hard-earned cash, I am sure, all while I sat back and watched in fascination. I would give anything to go back there, to a time where he worked in oil-stained overalls, tools in hand, music in the background, away from the evil, prying eyes of Yolanda Kelleher.

“Bah-bah-bah-ba-baba-bah, oh.” The souls of my feet take the brunt of a jump as I take flight from a slanted mound of dry dirt and jagged rocks. “Bah-bah—” Brian appeared from nowhere, straight into my line of vision, hand waving like a madman, and fuck, If I didn’t almost piss myself. “Holy shit!” Tugging the headphones down from my ears, leaving them around my neck, I turned off the music, panting and out of breath. “What the hell?” My voice, I am embarrassed to admit, trembled with unease. “You scared the living crap out of me. I thought I was beaver meat.”

“Beavers are herbivores.” He snatched the twigs out of my hands and juggled them between us. “They eat twigs and leaves, not meat.”

“Yeah, I knew that,” I lied because I would not give him the satisfaction of being smarter than me. “Why are you here?” My old boots trudged through dry, rustling leaves as I moseyed along to hide red-cheeked mortification. “Are you following me or something?”

He chucked the twigs into an overgrown bush. “Where else would you be if not locked up in that tower of yours?”

I hate that he referred to my bedroom as a tower. “You didn’t knock on the front door, did you?”

“And wake up Yolanda Kelleher?” He snorted to exaggerate my mother’s certifiable condition. “Are you mad?”

Yeah, I am mad.

I am mad at Brian for disturbing my quiet, peaceful, alone time.

I am mad at Yolanda for indirectly keeping me away from the house.

I am mad at the universe for dealing me the worst cards in bastard history.

“If you didn’t knock on the front door, how did you know where to find me?” My stare roved the expanse of the forest. “I snuck off for a reason.”

Brian chewed his thumbnail. “What’s the reason?”

To be alone. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Anyway.” He kicked leaves aside for no apparent reason. “You never answered the window.”

I understood his logic.

Hurling stones at each other’s windows is how we communicated. I never knocked on his front door and vice versa. It was not worth our parents’ chastisement. So, stone-throwing, sneakily, to get one another’s attention is how we operated. It worked like a charm. Either that or our parents are dumber than they looked.

“So, I figured you’d be down here somewhere.” His eyes squinted against the intensity of the sun’s morning rays. “Getting eaten by beavers.”

He will never let me live that blunder down.

I thought of a quick, witty comeback.“Fuck you, you ugly—” A twig snapped in the distance, and our eyes popped wide in sheer panic. “Did you hear that?”

Brian nodded vehemently.

We hunkered behind a fallen, moss-covered tree in the rapidity of unified trepidation. Neither of us vocalised concerns, as exposing fear in front of one another was embarrassing on both of our parts.

My heart leapt to my throat.

Another eerie sound echoed through the forest.

“What was that?” Brian peered over the tree’s rough bark to pinpoint the source of our sudden anxieties. “Beavers are small, right?”

“How should I know, Einstein?” My breath came out in small, hitched bursts. “You are the genius around here, so you tell me.”

“Why be a smartass?” His muddy hands clung to the tree’s rough bark. “We are on their territory. It is possible that they might become aggressive.”

“Great.” All I could think about was an army of brown, furry, heavy-tailed rodents feasting on my skin. “I should have stayed by the river, where it was safe and free from beavers.”

“Beavers are semi-aquatic rodents.” His dark, bushy brow elevated. “They like slow-moving water. You are no safer there than you are here.”

I had never felt more foolish. “You are doing a number on my intellect, by the way.”

He smiled widely. “I like the discovery channel.”

Another twig snapped.

My head dropped behind the tree. “You better hope that step-father of yours didn’t follow you.”

“No, he was passed out on the sofa when I left,” he assured me with the uncertainty of a careless idiot. “You know what he’s like once the alcohol kicks in. He could sleep for a week...”

Then, as Brian prattled on about the worthless, lazy man at home, and I pretended to listen, Mary, the pretty, green-eyed blonde that lived in the old, detached house across the street from us, appeared near the enormous weeping willow tree, the long, supple branches grazing the floor. Yeah, I blushed and died on the inside because Mary, well, she was something special. I had the biggest crush on her and have done for as long as I can remember, and seeing her out here, in the wilderness, like an angel gifted by God, might be the highlight of my week.

Mary’s eyes found mine across the stretch of detritus, and, with a meek wave of the hand, she smiled the prettiest of smiles.

“...I reckon he will still be where I left him, on the sofa, snoring his arse off, when I get home.” Brian is now chewing on a random liquorice stick that seemed to have materialised from thin air. “And...” His eyes slithered into slits upon noticing our unexpected visitor. “Why is Mary skulking in the forest by herself?′

I shrugged.

“Damn.” He fell back on his haunches. All doe-eyed in pathetic wonderment. “I am in love.”

I will punch him in the throat. “No, you’re not. I am.”

“No.” He shoved me in the shoulder, and I retaliated like a churlish prick. “I saw her first, and you know it!”

“Screw you, pillock,” I said nastily, as our hands pushed into each other, every shove becoming more and more aggressive. “You have loads of girlfriends already. Let me have one crush without you ruining it.”

“I kissed one girl,” he argued, and our shoulder shoves turned into repetitive whacks to each other’s flailing hands. “Come on, Brad. You know how much I like her. Whatever happened to bro-code?”

“You lie.” I threw leaves in his face. “You never, not once, ever, mentioned Mary like that. You only said it when I did. Don’t be so competitive—”

“I see,” Mary said with a soft, humorous laugh, and the pair of us jerked back like a bunch of gawky, embarrassing halfwits. I mean, it’s not like we never saw her approaching, so why the bloody dramatics? “Sneaking off without me?” Her hands slid to her hips, and I followed the movement like the lovesick teenager that I am. “I should disown you.”

“Disown him.” Brian threw a thumb in my direction, and I shot him a displeased glare. “He deserves it.”

“Really?” Mary glanced at me, a twinkle in her eye, and I swear, my face was hotter than an iron-smelting furnace. “How so?”

“I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for him.” Brian pushed to his feet, removing blades of leaves from his hair. “I’d be tucked up in bed, nice and warm.”

I rose to my feet. “I never asked you to follow me.”

“Yet, I do it anyway because I am a good friend.” He eye-balled me knowingly, and I knew, if I so much as retorted, he’d expose my secret crush to Mary just to be a complete tool. “Unlike someone, I know.”

I squeezed the nape of my neck and turned my attention to the pretty blonde girl. “What are you doing out this early?”

“I was in the garden, smoking a cigarette when I spotted this tearaway,” Mary pointed at Brian, “dashing into the woods. I didn’t want to miss out on all the fun.”

“You could have just called out my name,” Brian deadpanned. “You didn’t need to follow me like a creeper. Wait!” His face scrunched up in puzzlement. “You smoke?”

“Kind of,” she said with pink-cheeked bashfulness. “I might have stolen a packet of cigarettes out of my dad’s drawer.”

“And you had the cheek to ask if I am mad?” My bewildered look diverted to Brian. “She is batshit crazy.”

“Hey!” Mary’s hand thrust me in the shoulder, and I hate to admit it, but the unexpected force almost knocked me down. “I am not crazy. Do not call me that.”

“No?” Tampering down the urge to wince, I rubbed the ache from my upper arm. “Your old man is a fucking nutter. He will beat seven shades of shit out of you when he finds out what you did.”

Mary looked worried for all of three painstaking seconds. “Whatever.”

“What?” My eyes bugged out in disbelief. “Your funeral.”

“Be nice.” Brian’s scrawny arm slid across Mary’s slender shoulders, the opportunist, and I had to stop myself from reaching out and snapping his grubby fingers. “You’re not supposed to scare her. You’re supposed to encourage her. It’s more fun.”

“Encourage her to piss off the old man?” And sport black eyes and bruised cheeks for days. “Next joke.”

“No, Brian is right,” Mary said, and Brian, the gloating prick, beamed like a Cheshire cat. “Who cares if I stole a packet of cigarettes? What’s the worst that can happen? He will ground me for a month.”

And throw fists until you pass out, I thought. “Well, if we are being reckless, I want to try one.”

“Yeah?” Mary bit her bottom lip with the mischievousness of a nothing-to-lose daredevil. “Brian?”

Brian eyed the stolen packet of cigarettes in her hand. “What if our parents smell it on us?”

I doubt Yolanda could smell anything over the stench of alcohol on her breath.

“You can spray with perfume.” Mary dropped the backpack to the ground and unzipped it. “Or I have deodorant. Either should work.”

“I don’t know what’s worse. Going home, bumping of cigarettes, or smelling like I just fell into bed with a girl.” Brian accepted a cigarette, placed it between his lips and borrowed a lighter from Mary’s bag. “I better not choke to death.”

I watched him inhale a drag effortlessly. “Well?”

Although Brian’s eyes watered, he respired fumes with the ease of a chain smoker. “It’s all right.” His lips slapped together to remove the taste of nicotine on his tongue. “I don’t like the aftertaste, though.”

Mary sparked her own cigarette before handing me a third. Watching the pair of them blow smoke toward the directionless branches high up in the trees, I rolled the lighter between my fingers, hesitating to join them. After a short pause, I lit the end and took a long, deep drag, only to cough, splutter and humiliate myself in the process.

“Oh, fuck,” I croaked, banging my chest to ease the merciless blockage in my throat. “How do you both make it look so easy?” I swear I had tears in my eyes and smoke stuck in the back of my mouth. “That shit is rank.”

“You don’t like it?” Mary wondered aloud, and I shook my head. “Give it another try. You will get used to it after a while.”

I highly doubt it. Still, I put the cigarette to my lips, inhaled a gentle drag, and blew out smoke instantaneously.

“You have to inhale,” Brian decided to educate me, not that I gave two shits. “What’s the point otherwise?”

“There isn’t one.” I dropped the barely smoked cigarette to the ground and put it out under my boot. “Hey, I am not stopping you two from clogging up your arteries. I just don’t want any part of it.”

Brian’s hands threw up in the air. “You are the one that suggested smoking.”

Yeah, and I regretted it—obviously.

Mary’s jaw steeled in disappointment, but she soon smiled to make me feel better. “It’s a good job that I didn’t steal the alcohol, huh?”

Before Brain spoke up, I intervened. “Don’t give her any ideas,” I warned, knowing damn well he’d encourage such reckless behaviour. “Mary has to be a good girl to avoid daddy’s wrath.”

“Screw you,” she snapped, and every hair on my body stood to attention. “Like your mother is anything to brag about.”

Her words slammed me straight in the chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Please.” She pulled in a deep breath. “My father isn’t the only parent in the street that likes to backhand his kids.”

I never confirmed nor denied her confident belief. “Yolanda’s never taken a belt to my arse.”

“No, she beats you with your father’s baseball bat instead,” Mary retorted, and my eyebrows sprang to my hairline in shock. “What? I live in the house directly opposite yours. I can see everything from my bedroom window.”

A shiver of dread travelled the length of my spine.

How much of my house can Mary see from her bedroom window?

Does she watch from the shadows often?

Does she know my darkest secret?

No, I refused to believe it.

“Don’t be talking shit about us.” I paid scant attention to Brian because she was trapped in my determined sights. “What goes on behind closed doors is none of your business.”

“Likewise,” she replied, and rightly so. “So, we have strict parents. Big deal. At least, it’s something the three of us have in common.” She flicked cigarette ash on the floor. “Right?”

A beating is the least of my concerns. “Right.”

“Right.” Brian gave us a toothy smile. “My mum isn’t so bad. It’s that arsehole who pretends to be my father that I have issues with. I mean, who takes on another woman’s kid and reminds him every day that he’s a worthless piece of shit?” Dry leaves crepitated under his feet as he searched for something on the floor. “I don’t think he ever liked me.”

“I can somewhat relate,” Mary said, and all I could do was listen. “I often wonder why my father chose to have kids. It’s like he doesn’t have patience for any of us, including my mother.” Her lips pinched tight on the cigarette as she sucked in a lungful of smoke. “That’s why I went to the garden this morning. It’s quiet out there. I am not forced to listen to her cries.”

We all became seated around an abandoned campfire. I sprawled out by the uneven ring of stones buried in ashes and charcoal and hearkened to Mary’s prolonged speech about the aftermath of her father’s wickedness.

“I am scared for Martin,” she said, chucking the half-smoked cigarette into the dark pit. “My brother can’t seem to get it right lately. He is always on the receiving end of our father’s tyranny. Miles too. And don’t even start me on the twins. If I had somewhere to go, someplace safe, I’d run away with those babies to protect them from him. It’s only a matter of time.” She looked hopelessly dejected. “He will hurt them, too.”

I fumbled with a piece of wood. “My morning has turned into a therapy session.”

“Don’t be an arse,” Brian said softly, and I looked away. “We’re friends. Best friends,” he added. “We have to be there for each other, right?”

I nodded reluctantly, but inside, I wanted to steer clear of uncomfortable subjects. Once they have offloaded and discussed the tales of their depressing home life, I will be expected to share mine, and opening up about anything where Yolanda is concerned is a big fat no in my book.

“My step-father won’t let me eat when my mum is on the night shift,” Brian said, for Mary’s sake, not mine, as I am already aware of the travesties next door. “He lets me starve and then lies to my mother, saying I refuse to eat and whatnot.”

“Dick,” Mary said, and everyone chuckled airily. “Let me guess? She believes him over you.”

“Every damn time.” Brian repressed a coy smile. “It’s all good. We got a game plan, isn’t that right, Brad?”

My muscles tensed.

Why would he bring that up?

It’s supposed to be a secret.

“Really?” Mary expelled a ragged breath. “What’s the game plan?”

“Once we hit sixteen, the ripe age of adulthood,” Brian explained with a twitch in the cheek, “we are packing a bag and heading for the hills.” Her eyes grew progressively wider as he spoke. “We ain’t never coming back.”

Mary’s stare came to me. “You will run away from here.”

I nodded.

“And leave me behind,” she said quietly, and guilt started to creep in. “Where will you go?”

“We don’t know yet.” Brain ran a hand down his face. “I mean, there is Manchester or Liverpool. I hear Edinburgh is nice.”

“And freezing cold,” she countered with a hint of jealousy. “I can’t believe you planned this without me. Were you even going to tell me? Or did you plan to leave in the middle of the night without saying goodbye?”

I stared at her in a moment of pensiveness. “Would you run?”

“I don’t know. I’d hate to leave my brothers and sister behind...” Her cheeks hollowed. “God, I envy both of you, already.”

“You don’t have to stay here,” Brain tried to level with her, but we all know that she’d never agree to escape her father’s clutches. “Hey, we’re the three amigos. What’s good for us is good for you.”

“Edinburgh.” Her bottom lip rolled between her teeth. “Maybe I can track you down someday, huh?”

Brian’s hopeful expression fell, whereas I am not surprised that she would subtly decline the offer to run away. I knew she had too much to lose.

“Is it so bad?” Mary asked me, not that I understood the question. “At home. Must you rush to leave? I know Yolanda is a bit...eccentric at times, but it will get easier. You will get older and—”

“I can’t stay here forever,” I cut in before she could waste her breath by trying to persuade me. “Yolanda is not eccentric. She is pure evil, the most insidious scale of wickedness.” I never told anyone, not even Brian, about the monsters at night, the multiple personalities, the shadows in bed, in fear of judgement. “I will die if I stay here. She will kill me.”

Mary paled in complexion. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“I do.” Brian’s hand squeezed my shoulder. “Yolanda’s got a couple of screws loose since Arlo walked out. Ain’t that right, Brad?”

My heart ached at the mention of my father.

“Where did he go?” Mary stared into space as if the secret lay for all to see in the forest. “It’s like he vanished into thin air.”

I wish I had the answers. “I wouldn’t be here if I knew.”

Her eyes, soft and sympathetic, came back to me. “You’d look for him.”

“Yes.” If only I were older. If only I had the right resources. I’d travel to the end of the world to find him. “He’s waiting for me. I know it.”

Brian grunted under his breath. “Pie in the sky. Arlo doesn’t want to be found, so get stupid ideas out of your head.” He sprayed Mary’s perfume on his hoodie to mask the smell of cigarette smoke. “He left you behind. Fuck him.”

My jaw muscle ticked. “He’s my father.”

“He’s a deadbeat.” Stuffing the perfume bottle back in Mary’s bag, he re-zipped the zipper. “A no-good waste of space.”

My blood boiled. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

“Why defend him?” Brian breathed out a short, caustic laugh. “Dude, he fucked off and never looked back. Do not waste any time on the prick. You are better than that.”

I know he is right. “I love him.”

“You love a ghost.” Brian looked at Mary for moral support, but she kept her head down, not wanting to get involved. “He does not exist.”

Arlo’s vanishment does not expunge treasured memories. “He was a good dad,” I told them, thumbing the dented scrapes on the old cassette player. “No, he was the best dad. I don’t know why he left or why he never came back.” My voice was low and dispirited. “But there must be a valid reason.”

Brian offered a tight smile. “You excuse his behaviour.”

“Maybe.” My shoulders lifted uncaringly. “It doesn’t change my opinion, though.”

“Wow.” He respired a weary breath. “Dude, don’t be so soft.”

“Brian,” Mary spoke up for the first time in minutes. “It’s not your place.”

“Hey,” he waved a hand in my direction, “I am only looking out for him.”

“Yeah, well, it’s starting to sound very opinionated.” Her fierce expression commanded silence. “Drop it.”

“Fine.” He plucked a spear of grass from the ground. “Whatever.”

We left the forest shortly after, venturing back to our neighbourhood, at the right time, by all accounts, because the milkman had arrived. If he’s out and about, delivering dairy floats, inhabitants would soon arise, which is a massive problem for us.

The three of us hid in the neighbour’s garden at the end of the street. The owner was older than Jesus, blind as a bat and deaf as a post. Even if she sipped tea on the doorstep behind us, she’d have no knowledge of trespassers.

“Shit.” Mary held the backpack straps tight to her shoulders. “My dad is by the front door.”

Her father never missed an opportunity to greet the milkman. Luckily for Mary, he looked calmer than usual. It’s probably the only time I get to see the man, at daybreak, before his morning brew. He never opened the door in pyjamas or casualwear, unlike the rest of the neighbours. He only meets and greets in tailored clothes, leather shoes and a vintage-looking pocket watch with a T-bar chain. “I don’t think he knows.”

Her fingernails dug into the palm of her hand. “How can you be so sure?”

“Would he be smiling like that if he did?” I gave her a pointed look. “He thinks you are tucked up in bed. Just go around the back once he’s inside and sneak through the window. He will never know.”

Unfortunately for Mary, daddy dearest placed delivered milk bottles on the floor in the hallway, and then he returned to the doorstep to continue the conversation with the milkman.

“Guys, I hate to leave you stranded, but I need to get inside before my mother’s car pulls up.” Brian crawled out of the garden and, very slowly, scoured our surroundings before breaking into a sprint. His hand waved in the air aimlessly. “I’ll catch you later.”

Mary’s head lowered behind the wall. “He has a bell on every tooth.”

I was in no rush to get home. I’d be in trouble no matter what. If I am caught sneaking in? Yolanda will punish me. If I slept in my room all night and came down for breakfast like a well-behaved teenager? Yolanda will still find a reason to punish me. I quite literally had nothing to lose.

“Amigos,” Mary said, and when she turned to me and caught me staring, I averted my gaze to the floor. “If there were not three of us, what would we call ourselves?”

“I don’t know.” Brian’s my day one, so I had never thought about it. “Friends?”

“That’s basically the same as amigos,” she emphasised, and I blushed again. “What about best friends forever?”

I cringed at the cheesiness.

“What?” Her eyes glittered like rare diamonds. “Does being my close friend repulse you?”

“Never,” I said whispery, unable to look at her as I spoke. “I happen to think that you are pretty incredible. And, well, pretty in general.”

“Yeah, I am.” She curled a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “You are not so bad, either.”

I choked out a laugh. “I wish I had your confidence.”

“You don’t think you’re pretty?”

“Do we call lads pretty?”

“I think you’re pretty.”

I suddenly hated the word ‘pretty.’

Her hand rested on my knee as she peeked over the wall. I flinched at the unexpected contact, and she panicked, withdrawing her arm, but I caught her wrist, needing to feel her soft palm in mine. “Sorry, I get a little jumpy,” I whispered, interlacing our fingers together. “Mary...”

“Yes?” Her eyes searched mine. “What is it?”

I am beyond nervous. “What would you say if I asked for a kiss?”

Please, do not backfire on me.

“Oh?” Her fingers twitched anxiously. “Well, I have never been kissed before...Have you?”

I chose not to answer. “Would you say yes?”

“I don’t know.” Her cheeks, dusted in rosiness, puffed out. “I might embarrass myself if I tried.”

Our noses grazed as our eyes aligned.

I wanted to see how it felt to be kissed by someone I cared about, someone I had feelings for, an actual kiss that gave me butterflies rather than bouts of nausea. I leaned in and waited for our lips to connect. Seconds passed in awkward silence before I accepted defeat. My head reared back in time to see the reluctance in her eyes, and honestly, I hated myself for the pitiful attempt. Of course, she would never agree to kiss a lad like me. Why did I contemplate otherwise?

“Right.” I let go of her hand and stood. “Sorry, I don’t know why I did that. I won’t do it again.”

“Wait.” Her hand gripped mine to stop me from running away, which was all I could think about to evade the humiliation of rejection. “Don’t be embarrassed. I am just nervous, that is all. It has nothing to do with you. I meant what I said.” Then, I lifted my eyes to hers, timid and cautious. “I think you are really pretty. But I am not ready to go around kissing boys.”

Yet, everything she said sounded like a lie. “That’s fair enough.”

She glimpsed at her house to find that her father had gone inside. “I should get home before he notices I am not in bed.”

I nodded.

Mary reached the side entrance of the garden, looked back, waved once, and then disappeared down the side of the house. Once she was home safely, I walked to the place that no longer felt like home, the Victorian-style house with the crazy village lady. My mud-layered boots thumped up the concrete steps to the front door, the ajar door, and I simply stared at the gap, knowing Yolanda would be sitting on the wooden chair in the kitchen, waiting for me, tea and cigarettes on the table.

Picking up the glass bottle of milk on the step, I opened the door fully, feeling the woman’s eyes on me as I kicked off the muddy boots and placed them on the bottom of the stairs. If I looked up, I’d see her in my peripheral vision. But I opted for cowardice instead, avoiding her accusatory glare at all costs.

“I went out to get the milk,” I lied, feigning indifference, whilst unsuccessfully dodging the mess on the floor: dirty laundry, empty containers, strewn magazines, damaged CDs and empty handbags. “Do you want a cup of tea?” In the small, box-sized kitchen, I cracked open the cupboard in search of tea bags but came unstuck. The shelves were empty bar a few tins of beans and tomatoes and a half-filled salt grinder. “We need to go shopping.”

I heard the exhale of cigarette smoke behind me. “I got no money.”

Yolanda received benefits every week. If she stopped drinking and taking drugs, she could afford to put some damn food in the fridge. “Maybe I should get a paper round.”

“No kid of mine is delivering newspapers.” Her tone was thick and rough from too many cigarettes. “You are a Kelleher. We are better than some lousy, rolled-up articles. Those lazy neighbours can get their own papers. They got legs.”

I am not a Kelleher.

I am Arlo Jones’ first-born son.

I am Brad Jones.

“Put the milk in the fridge before it curdles,” she instructed, and I did as I was told. “You locked your bedroom door last night. I was worried about you.” The chair creaked when she stood, a bit wobbly in the knees. “You look tired, sweet baby. Are you not getting enough sleep?” Her hand touched my upper back, and the muscles beneath my skin rippled in displeasure. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?” Her palm touched my forehead. “Hold on. I will get your medication—”

“I am fine.” Ripping away from her, I went to the sink, squirted cheap washing-up liquid into the bowl and busied myself with the dirty dishes. “I am not sick. I don’t need medication.”

“What about your epilepsy?” She flicked cigarette ash onto the kitchen floor. “Your allergies? Your sleep apnea? You will die if you don’t take the medication.”

Every word that comes out of her mouth is a lie. I don’t know what pills she stuffed down my throat, but I started spitting the medication a few months ago, when her back turned, of course. Yet, here I am, no fits or seizures, no itchy skin or wheezing or trips to the doctor’s office. If anything, I am cured of whatever sickness she had inflicted on me.

I balanced clean dishes on the drainer.

“Here.” Cigarette dangling between her lips, she uncapped a bottle of tablets. “Take two of these.”

“No,” I said, short and sharp, and her angry, red-rimmed eyes, circled in dark shadows, peered up at me in spine-chilling slow-motion. “I am not sick.” Needing a distraction, I took in all the mess on the kitchen counters. You’d never think there was a rubbish bin by the back door. I began to collect empty beer cans and alcohol bottles. “If you leave the cup on the side, I will wash it for you—” Her palm stuck me in the jaw, and even though I had prepared for the repercussions of insolence, the sharp sting effectively took me aback. Two glass bottles slipped through my hands, crashing on the floor, yet the glass remained intact. “I—“Another two painful clips to my cheek had me whispering a slew of apologies. “I am sorry.”

“For what?” She slammed the pill bottle onto the kitchen counter with unnecessary vigour. “For answering back? For being disrespectful?” Her green hair-rollers barely held curls together, as unruly strands, greyer in recent days, unravelled by her fierce eyes and pink-tipped ears. “Or is it because you snuck out of the house this morning to whore around with the preacher’s daughter?”

My cheek was on fire.

“Did you behave yourself?” she asked in a subtle undertone as her trembling hands splayed across my chest and shoulders. “You didn’t let her touch you, did you?”

I studied the patterned wall tiles above the sink. “No.”

“My sweet baby.” Her thumbs rubbed the hollow skin beneath my eyes. “Out there, in the big world, pretending to be a man,” she said, her voice mocking and belittling. “Tell me, Bradley. Did you please her? Did she enjoy it?”

My eyes watered involuntarily. “It’s not like that between us.”

“Liar.” Her hand snatched the hair at the nape of my neck, and I winced as pain lanced through my head. “Did you lay her down beneath you in the forest? Take her on the ground?” Her sickening excitement had my stomach rolling. “What is she like down there?” When her mouth teased the shell of my ear, I tried to turn my head but to no avail. “How did she taste?”

“Stop.” My hands curled around her wrists to pry her hands down from my face. “You are not supposed to talk like this, Mum.”

“What do you mean?” Her brows incurved in perplexity. “You are not shy. Do not hide from me.”

“Mum,” I croaked, feeling sick to my stomach. “I think...” My palms slid down her bare arms gingerly, somewhat caringly. “I think you need help. You have not been yourself since Arlo left.”

“Do not mention that man’s name.” Her tight grip on my hair softened. “I am fine. I don’t need some man to make me feel good about myself.” Then, her bare feet, cracked at the heels, stepped over the glass bottles on the floor, her robe parted at the centre, exposing the flimsy, satin nightdress and skeletal figure. “I do good all by myself.” Unscrewing bottled rum, she poured a dangerous amount of strong alcohol into a ceramic mug. “Besides,” she said with a wicked smirk, “I have you, Bradley.”

I have you.

I have you.

I have you.

I counted the wall tiles.

Three.

Two.

One.

Inhale.

Exhale.

It is no use.

I had to get away from her.

“Bradley?” Her voice faded as I stumbled out of the kitchen. “Hey, I am talking to you! Where the hell are you going?” My socked feet pounded up the stairs. “Get back here right now! I have more to say!”

Unlocking my bedroom door, I kicked it open and slammed it behind me. Within seconds, her palms struck the old wood, the door handle rattling rapidly, as she tried to gain access to my private space.

“Sweet baby,” she cried loudly, and I almost felt sorry for her. “Why must you lock the door? I never said it was okay! I never agreed to any of this!”

Staring at the closed door, I collapsed on the floor, back to the single bed, face hidden behind my hands, and waited for her to exhaust herself. Yet, the banging, screaming, yelling and belittling never seemed to end. If anything, her anger heightened. Her verbal abuse intensified. It’s not easy to drown out if it’s omnipresent, especially if it’s perceived as normal in the eye of an undiagnosed maniac.

My ferociously thumping heart threatened to stop beating.

The hot temperature of my blood tightened the skin on my body.

I felt trapped.

Lost.

Lonely.

Miserable.

Always miserable.

Peeling out of the hoodie, I tossed it somewhere behind me, and the socks and grey jogging bottoms followed. To the raucousness that would be my mother’s shrieking voice, I reached under the bed to find my father’s Stanley knife. It had electrical tape wrapped around the handle and his name written on the grooves in Tipp-Ex. To regulate negative emotions, I used my thumb to slide the sharp blade out and searching for a space of unmarked skin on my thigh. Between two faded scars, I drew a line and pierced the skin, the sharpest point, the unimaginable pain stealing all of my attention.

I am in control of my own suffering.

Biting back a harsh groan, I dropped my head back to the bed, eyes locked in darkness, as waves of adrenaline passed through me. Each slice of the blade helped me to escape. My heart rate slowed down. My anxieties were reduced. Two cuts, I counted before dropping the knife to the ground with a metal clank. My thumb swept across ruptured flesh to feel the heat of blood, to enjoy the tremble in my bones, the aftershock, the anticipated calmness of my heart.

Footsteps receded down the hall.

I laid down on the floor, the curled-up, bloodied fist in my sights, and listened to crashing saucepans below.

Yolanda will threaten to set fire to the house now.

Maybe she will follow through with it this time.

***

The softest of cold winds blew through my hair as I catalogued the place that stored gruesome memories with a steady stare. The house of horrors, where did it begin and end? I was once the main actor, the leading man, the star of the show, the son of the neighbourhood’s crazy bin lady, the victim of the monster’s reprehensible abuse. It looked the same with its architectural revival style, as frightening as I remembered: privacy trees, dark windows and chipped wood, and an abandoned vehicle parked outside the locked garage.

Naturally, I glanced at the old tire swing in the next-door neighbour’s back garden. The rope was frayed, tattered and weather-worn, the rubber ring hanging on by a snappable thread. “Brian lived there with his mother and his step-father.”

Warren blew cigarette smoke toward the dark, starless sky. He looked fit for the occasion in an all-black three-piece suit, and the only stark colour was that of his intense blue eyes and ice diamond jewellery. “Regretful?”

“Never,” I said, and, strangely enough, I meant it. “Brian got what he deserved.”

“Indeed.” Small stones crunched under the man’s expensive leather shoes as he stepped up alongside me. He scrutinised the state of Yolanda’s ancient-looking house. “So, this is what home represented.”

“It was never my home.” I bellied indignation. “I was merely a squatter.”

He hummed, low and deep in thought. “Are you ready to face your past?”

I will never be ready to face Her.

No, I had to get away from here, back to London, where I belonged. My retreating footsteps only managed three steps before his leather-clad hand seized the front of my new white shirt. “Bossman,” I whispered, my eyes pleading with him to let me go. “I walked away for a reason.”

Warren’s impatient glare burnt into me. “Did I order you to leave?”

No, but I would rather face this man’s wrath than take another step toward that house. “I’m not doing this.”

The corner of his mouth curled into a sinister smirk. “You are afraid.”

My throat swelled.

“You fear a pitiful woman’s capabilities more than your own.” His head cocked to the side. “You disappoint me. I thought you were ready.”

“What good will come of this?” My hand latched onto his gloved hand, not that he took the hint. His inexorable hold on my shirt hardened. “You will never understand my humiliation.”

His glare assessed every inch of my face. “Affirmative.”

I expelled a relieved breath.

“However, I do understand the thirst for revenge.” A second-hand baseball bat appeared between us. “You want to move on?” He forced the bat into my hand. “Make her bleed or stand back and watch as I do it for you.”

With one final drag on the cigarette, he tossed it on the muddy ground, tucked his hands in his trouser pockets and advanced toward the house. I drew the outline of a car in the dirt with the tip of the bat. I was almost sure he’d wait for me on the step, but when I looked up, only a wide-open door into the shadows awaited.

Of course, the man entered without me.

Liam Warren feared nothing.

Not even the devil himself.

My fingers curled around the bat.

Through the dense fog, I drifted to the house at a funeral’s pace, ascended the chipped, concrete steps one foot at a time, one breath at a time, and hesitated by the threadbare welcome mat. I swallowed the bile in my throat, stepped over the mat, floorboards in the hallway creaking under the weight of my body, and slowly closed the front door behind me, the lock clicking into place in finality.

It’s time Yolanda Kelleher paid the piper.