Chapter 3 The Fallen
Chapter Three
The Fallen
Jackie didn’t know how many days had passed since he arrived at the chancellor’s house. Time moved differently in the presence of giants.
Hours raced like minutes.
Minutes dragged like centuries.
Sharp breaths held for eternities.
And heartbeats jerked out of rhythm.
When Jackie was finally driven home, he lacked the strength to rush out of the car—no matter how much he wanted to. His body moved slowly, so as not to hurt any worse. Small steps. Shallow breaths. The closer he came to the stoop, the more he shook.
The car didn’t linger and was gone before he made it through the door.
“Mummy?”
The floorboards creaked from above and he looked up, confused if he was in trouble or safe. Her eyes locked with his from where she stood on the landing, but neither moved.
Did she know? Did they tell her what he did? The chancellor said it was their little secret, so he wasn’t sure.
“Jackie…” she finally whispered, the word pained and raw. She rushed down the stairs, hand on the banister so she didn’t fall. She didn’t stop until she pulled him into her arms.
He winced at the sudden contact.
“Are you hurt?”
Words stuck in his throat as she lifted his shirt, inspecting his back and belly. He didn’t like looking at the dark marks there, so he closed his eyes.
“Oh, my poor baby.” When she hugged him again, he tensed. Hugs weren’t the same anymore. Nothing was.
Pain vibrated through him as he tried to stifle a sob. Sweat gathered like cold mist on his skin as he shook violently. She clutched his shoulders, but even that was too much. Turning away, he lurched forward and vomited all over the floor.
Chocolates and greasy burgers and too many horrific memories to evacuate. Belting out a sob, he fell to his knees. When his mother came behind him, he instinctively scrabbled away, cowering and confused with his back to the wall.
“Oh, baby, it’s okay.”
He shook his head, telling her it wasn’t, but he couldn’t find the words to explain why. He just knew he didn’t want to be touched anymore.
Her hand rushed to her mouth as she stared at him. He hadn’t meant to make her cry.
“I’m sorry, Mummy.”
She shook her head and looked away.
His stomach twisted, making the soreness inside that much worse. He didn’t know what to do, so he covered his face to hide.
“Don’t cry,” she said, close but no longer touching. “You’re not in any trouble, baby.” Slowly, she reached forward to brush delicate fingers through his hair, but stopped when he turned away, shutting his eyes. “I made soup. It might help your tummy.”
“I’m not hungry.”
She looked at him with concern. “They must have fed you real well.”
Jackie didn’t want to think of that. He wanted to forget everything. “Can I go to bed please?” he asked, dragging his wet nose against his sleeve.
She looked at him then, her chin wobbling and her eyes brimming with tears. Finally, after a long moment, she nodded.
Pushing himself off the floor, he stepped around the mess. “I’m sorry I threw up.”
She didn’t respond, only silently watched him with that haunted look in her eyes.
When he made it to his room, he couldn’t sleep. Every time his eyes closed, he saw things he didn’t want to see. And when he started to doze, his body jerked awake as if hands were reaching for him.
Sometime in the middle of the night, he woke to pee. Mum wasn’t in her room. He found her downstairs, huddled in a chair, sleeping.
Jackie wandered into the kitchen and paused. Where there had been empty shelves before, tins now stacked three deep. Beans and vegetables and cans of milk. His belly was too sore to eat any of it.
He returned to the den but didn’t enter when he heard a noise. A real wood fire burned in the fireplace. Jackie crept closer, silently watching as his mother placed another log in the flames.
Her face looked sad, and he believed he was to blame. When she sat down, she started to cry. He almost went to her then, but froze when she snapped, “Stop it. What’s done is done.”
She moved to kneel on the floor in front of the table where strange objects scattered across the surface.
Her hand shook as she tapped white powder from a small vial onto the table and cut into it with a blade.
She carefully scooped the powder onto a spoon and held it over a candle flame, cooking it until it melted into a liquid.
She used a thin tube to extract the liquid from the spoon, then tied a string around her arm. Her skin bulged, and her hand shook as she lifted the tube, pressing it into her flesh. Her eyes closed, and her body melted against the chair.
When she didn’t move for some time, Jackie stepped forward. “Mum?”
“Jackie…” Eyes barely open, her voice drifted across the room. “You’re awake.”
A strange odor tickled his nose. “Are you sick?”
“Mm, I’ll be fine. Just taking some medicine.”
He crept closer as her head lolled back. When she looked up at him, her eyes were different. The large, flat circles in the middle reminded him of fish eyes. The dead kind that watched them whenever they walked past the fish market in town.
“My beautiful boy...” She stretched weakly for him, but he stepped out of reach. “I had to do it, baby... for us.”
“Mummy, please sit up.”
Her eyes opened, staring at him with those dead fish eyes. Tears shimmered against the black where the reflection of the firelight glowed. “What have I done?” She covered her face and screamed. “What have I done?” She bellowed, causing Jackie to take another step back. “I’m sorry!”
He didn’t like seeing her like this but he didn’t know what to do. “Mummy, please get up.” He tried to pull her off the floor, but she was too heavy.
“I did it for us. We have food now, and heat. It wasn’t too bad, was it, to see how the rich live?”
A chill raced up his spine, his brow softening as his face melted from the bone. He stepped back and blinked. Up until then, he didn’t think she knew.
Concern shifted to anger as his breath quickened. “I don’t want to go back there.”
She nodded, sniffling and wiping away more tears. “Never again, baby. I promise. No more... I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.”
Needing that promise more than anything else, he sat beside her and gently rested his head on her arm.
“It was just a dream, Jackie. Just a bad dream.”
But it wasn’t a dream. Even at six, he knew that was a lie. Dreams didn’t hurt after you woke up.
Dreams didn’t leave marks.
Jack opened his eyes just as the Bentley carved through the countryside, where the landscape transformed into sprawling fields that marked the sanctuary he called home. It had been weeks since he’d been back in his own territory, and he was anxious to return to his private space.
The Isles of Kassel created a private refuge for the top one percent. He’d bought his island over a decade ago, but unlike the others, he never allowed outsiders to visit.
The car crested a hill, and Thornfield Manor came into view, delivering an instantaneous sense of relief.
Home.
The house emerged like a cathedral tribute to the Jazz era, excessive in its Art Deco design, but unlike anything he’d ever seen before.
Jack had purchased it from a shipping magnate drowning in debt, a man whose father nearly lost the family fortune to gambling before successfully losing everything in the end.
Three stories of pale limestone flanked by twin towers. He loved the way the stained glass caught the sun and popped against the grey sky, crowns decorated with sunburst motifs in gold leaf and geometric order. Parapets pierced the clouds as green copper gutters spiraled elegantly to the ground.
It was obscene. It was beautiful. It was his.
As soon as Henry pulled under the awning, the doors opened, and Nick materialized at the threshold of the door.
“Our prince has returned,” he greeted, his familiarity earned over the course of twenty years and unmatched by others. “I trust your journey was uneventful.”
“Tedious.” Jack handed over the portfolio from The Preserve. “But successful. Have these sent to my study.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Something smells good.” The rich, savory scent of herbs perfumed the air.
“Myrtle’s been in the kitchen all day, anticipating your return.”
Myrtle.
Warmth spread through his chest as warm and wholesome as the stew she was likely cooking.
The sixty-three-year-old former prostitute now ran his household with iron efficiency. Jack didn’t have family, but his staff kept the loneliness at bay.
The kitchen was Myrtle’s domain. Copper saucepans hung from a rack, and herbs burst from terracotta containers on the sill. And a pot was always simmering on the stove. Today’s dish smelled of rosemary and wine.
“I hope you’re hungry,” she greeted in thick cockney before turning around. “Just as I suspected, thinner by a stone.”
“I doubt that,” he laughed, sliding into the empty seat by the counter. “I skipped breakfast.”
“No, you didn’t. I can smell the bourbon on your breath.”
“Well, I didn’t eat yet. I wanted to wait for a home-cooked meal.”
She set a slice of fresh baked bread before him. “How was Tokyo?”
“Unchanged.” He bit into the warm bread and moaned. “Delicious.”
She placed a cup and saucer before him and filled it with steaming tea. “Earl Grey, just as you like.” She dropped in a slice of lemon and it floated to the surface. “No sugar.”
“Thank you, Myrtle.”
She waited as he took a sip. “You look tired, Jack. Not Tokyo tired.”
“It’s that time of year.”
Her lips pressed thin. “Maybe this year you skip The Feast—”
“I can’t.”
“You’re the host. You can do whatever you want.”
“The process has already begun. People are counting on me. I can’t let them down.”
Her hand briefly squeezed his, a privilege few others were permitted. “I wish it didn’t take such a toll on you. I know how some things can stir memories best left in the past.”
“It’s good for me to remember. Keeps me in check.”
“You’re a good man, Jack. You keep yourself in check.”
He raised a brow. They both knew that wasn’t true.