Chapter 2
TWO
Harry
“Tell me what I can do,” I beg. “Please.”
Greg’s body rocks with sobs as he buries himself further into the pillow. The duvet cover swamps him, hiding the frail ten-year-old boy mourning the presence of a father who’d be better off absent from our lives.
The cycle is heartbreaking. The weight loss, the dark circles under his eyes from a lack of sleep caused by the male laughter echoing up the stairs from the living room of our home.
I scoff at the word.
This is no home of ours.
My hand hovers near Greg’s back, wanting to offer him that comforting touch he so desperately craves, but each of my attempts is met with the same protest. Dad should be here, comforting him and providing the parental bond his son persistently needs.
Instead the past decade has seen him grieving the loss of his wife through alcohol and drug misuse.
Though this isn’t a man grieving anymore.
This is a man enjoying a life without the responsibilities of being a husband and a father.
I scrunch my fist at the thought, narrowing my eyes on the lingering scars on the backs of my knuckles.
They’ve faded over the years and will probably only exist as a distant memory by the time I’m in my twenties, but the reminder is embedded in my brain.
The altercation I had with one of Dad’s friends who wouldn’t shut his fucking mouth, and then the price I paid afterwards.
I roll my neck, pushing away the unwanted thought.
At the reminder of what we’ve been through, I vow, “I’ll fix this.”
Greg’s sobs soon subside, replaced by steady breathing from exhausting himself to sleep. The heavy burden loosens from my chest only slightly.
Silently, I leave the room and pass him one final look before pulling his bedroom door to.
I creep down the hallway, each step equally quiet, until I’m able to look over the banister into the crowded living room.
A group of men are gathered, uncaring about the boys upstairs.
Smoke wafts through the air around them, though it’s not like the smoke from the cigarettes I’ve been stealing to ease the stress.
This stench is harsher, kind of metallic.
One man throws his head back on a deep chuckle, slamming the beer bottle down on the table. The crash of glass on glass is jarring, but they make no effort to lighten their voices with Greg sleeping.
At the thought of him, I spare a slow glance over my shoulder. I can see the outline of his body under the covers, the steady movement that tells me he’s still asleep. But when he wakes, we’ll be repeating the cycle again.
This kid needs his father, and while I’ll always be there for him, I’ve had enough of the adults around us refusing to pull their weight.
A sitcom plays low in the background as I make my way downstairs, flickers of light from the TV screen dancing across the walls in the dark room.
They’re eerie, the shapes moving across the walls like ghosts.
But I hope those aren’t real. Our mother doesn’t deserve for her eternal peace to be tainted with such depressing images.
I pass by the sofa as I step into the kitchen. Dad lifts his chin slightly, turning his attention over his shoulder to where I stand. It’s the slightest indication I still exist in his world.
Say something.
Anything.
Ask what you can do to help the kid upstairs.
A few seconds pass before he bows his head. Whatever hope I prayed for that some kind of interest would be shown dissipates quickly.
I pour some water, hoping to distract myself from the anger steaming up from underneath my skin.
“What’s got you down, Michael?” A man with grease-stained jeans and a red checkered shirt draws in his thick brows. He slaps Dad across the back of the head, muttering around the stick that’s balanced between his lips. “You shoulda told me your beer was empty.”
“Fetch me another, would you?” Dad throws his arm across the back of the sofa, where it hovers above the shoulders of a woman passed out over the armrest, something sour spilling from her mouth.
The man who spoke – Brian, I think his name is – pulls himself up from the sofa with an uncomfortable groan.
It takes effort, his fist closing around the edge of the table as he brings himself to his feet.
Spotting me beside the sink, his mouth holding the odd-smelling cigarette morphs into a sly smile.
The glass groans in my grip as he comes closer.
He stumbles up to my side, wrapping his hand around my shoulder with a firm squeeze. “I imagine you’re the little fucker who got Daddy’s mood down.”
My jaw ticks, and I roll my shoulders back until his hand slips. Brian stumbles with the movement and his lack of balance. Features schooled, I buck my chin towards his mouth.
“What’s that?”
“Why?” He takes a strong inhale, letting the smoke fester in his throat before blowing it right in my face. “You want some?”
I bite down hard on my tongue to suppress the reflexive urge to waft the smoke away—or punch him square in the face. The cloud dissipates, giving me focus on the white powder lingering around his nostrils.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
Anger like I’ve never known it swarms through me. Though I remain still, I feel a fire burning in my eyes as I stare directly at his bulbous nose. My heart pounds ferociously, and with each passing second of gritting my teeth I can feel myself beginning to falter.
“I …”
Don’t fucking do it, Harry.
“You say something?”
A metallic taste fills my mouth as I bite down so hard I cut through skin. Brian’s mouth pulls wider, into that comical, dangerous grin, forcing the words directly out of me.
“I don’t want that shit here,” I mutter.
“Come again, son?”
Son.
I inwardly cringe, but I paralyse my features, refusing to give anything away. Though I can’t help my sidelong glance at Dad to see if he has any emotional reaction to the word that feels foreign spoken out loud.
Nothing.
He doesn’t lift his head once. Not even the bat of an eyelid.
“I don’t want that shit here.” My voice turns stern, rising with the anger that struggles to keep itself under the surface. “Not in this house.”
A blink of his shrunken eyes indicates his initial shock, but it’s quickly overtaken by a smug smile.
Brian takes a step forwards, the burnt tip edging closer to my cheek, until I feel the singe of heat.
I remain stoic, but my fists are near shaking at my sides as he persists, laughter slipping through his chapped lips.
Rage.
I just feel bitter fucking rage.
And if Brian takes another step closer, he’ll be right in the firing line of my slipping restraint.
His smirk gives way to rotten yellow teeth. “Have a puff, son.”
That’s it.
I drop the glass of water and dart my hand out, locking his wrist in my closed fist. His dark gaze – which I found petrifying as a kid – falters, and his eyes dart to where I’m holding his wrist captive.
I’m just inches away from fracturing his distal radius – a bone I became well-acquainted with after our run-in a few years ago.
“Not in this house,” I state, the words clear and unforgiving. “Are we clear?”
Other than the laughter from that rerun of Friends playing through the TV, silence swarms the room.
“I said …” I step closer, the smashed glass fragments cracking under my feet. But I feel nothing. “Are. We. Clear?”
There’s a moment of pause before Brian blinks, and shocked laughter rumbles from his chest. “Michael, control your kid. He’s fucking insane—”
I hear the crack of a bone as I twist his wrist. I force my weight down to snap the joint, applying further pressure as Brian drops to his knees with a wail of a noise.
With my opposing hand, I force his head down too, pressing his cheek directly into the broken pieces of glass scattered across the floor.
Blood spills over the dirty tiles as I tangle my fingers in his dark hair, forcing him further into the sharp fragments.
“Just so we’re clear …” I bring my mouth closer to his ear, but I direct my focus on Dad, who finally spares me a bit of the attention that’s so hard to receive. “Don’t ever associate me with that cunt again.”
Dad’s expression is a mixture of shock, anger, and perhaps an inch of pride, but I choose to ignore it.
Cautiously, he rises to his feet with his hands outstretched like he’s seeking a truce somewhere in this odd middle ground.
His voice is wary, as if he’s trying to sober himself up quickly, but I know that’s not true.
“Harry …”
“Don’t,” I warn, my hands shaking near a large piece of shredded glass. It would only take a fraction of a second to impale Brian’s neck. There’s an artery where any type of damage would be fatal.
Dad’s eyes dart down to where the glass sits just inches from my grip, and he blinks suddenly as if hearing my internal battle. His voice turns soft. “Son—”
“Don’t fucking call me—”
“Harry?”
I whip my head towards the landing as the soft voice croaks, “What’s going on?”
Greg’s standing at the top of the stairs, his navy astronaut duvet draped across his shoulders as he rubs his eyes tiredly.
It takes a moment for the sleep to clear from his vision.
Then his eyes sweep the room, from the woman still passed out on the sofa, to the few other men lingering at the kitchen table, down to where I’m crouched over the tiled floor, with Dad turned towards me in that prepared-to-talk-a-bystander-off-a-ledge stance.
Greg blinks twice, doing a double-take as he looks back at me. “Is … is that—?”
Oh fuck.
As if jolted by a spark, I stumble to my feet. “It’s not what you think.”
I dust my hands over the front of my jeans, trying to rid of the evidence. Making cautious steps to the bottom of the stairs, I wrap my hand around the banister, my eyes trained on his lost ones.
“Greg …” I beg. “Look at me.”
His eyes are glued to the crime scene like a calling he can’t refuse. I turn my attention back to where Brian’s still lying on the floor groaning with exhaustion. The blood from the shredded glass seeps over the tiles quickly, spreading from the initial wound on his cheek.
What have I done?
When I turn back to Greg, it’s like he’s lost in a trance. All my worst fears are coming to life. I’m forcing this young boy into a trigger response, deep into his subconscious, his only haven.
I’m supposed to be his mentor, his saviour.
But I’m no better than our father.
A final plea. “Greg?” My heart pounds against my ribcage, and my attention darts frantically across the room. Dad makes me pause, frozen since the moment I forced Brian to the floor.
“Tell him. Tell him it’s not what it looks like. He’ll listen to you.”
His weary brown eyes turn to me, glassy with the effects of alcohol. They’re nearly identical to Greg’s, though my brother’s are stained with tears. The comparison forces me to croak, “As his father … please.”
I can feel the weight of Greg’s eyes on the back of my skull. Our Dad could change the severity of the moment with only a few words. No matter the trauma he’s been put through, a son will always listen to the ones he admires most. Despite the poor decisions they continue to make.
A boy needs his father – trusts his father – above all else.
White noise rings in my ears, tension thick between us all.
Dad clears his throat, relaxing his stance, but his face tells a completely different story. “Your brother ain’t to be trusted, Greg. Don’t believe a word he says.”
I see red. It drowns out the noise behind me as I take aggressive steps forwards.
“You fucking—”
A hard blow to the back of my head sends everything dark.
Gigi, you’re probably wondering what happened after that night.
Regretfully, I don’t have much to tell you, but the truth is, I selfishly enjoyed the quiet in those few hours I was asleep.
It was easier for me to hide in that darkness.
Easier for me to revert to being a boy with no responsibilities rather than a man who had to face what would come next from Greg and my father.
But I found out the hard way the silence I initially craved made things far, far worse. It gave me time to think. And someone was up to something.
For the most part, life continued on in a new normal.
Dad’s routine altered slightly … or so I thought.
It was only in the last remaining months before my eighteenth birthday that the nights of booze and rowdy laughter transcended into eerie silence.
As if he and his fucking mates were behaving themselves.
His putrid friends still visited occasionally, yet silence swarmed the room whenever I made my presence known. That thought alone was far more disturbing than any kind of alcohol misuse.
I just wish I’d known then what I do now.
Wish I’d foreseen what life was about to throw at me.
But in some oddly fucked-up way, ignorance is always bliss.
Though Greg … Greg is a different story.
He changed the night he experienced violence firsthand, and not for the better.