Chapter 5
FIVE
Harry
Flashback continued
My heart is pounding ferociously by the time I’ve closed the front door behind me.
“Greg?” I call out. “Greg, are you here?”
Normally, I’d expect the lack of response, but I can’t risk anything today. I’m already pulling myself up the stairs two at a time. I reach his bedroom and knock impatiently.
“I’m giving you one last chance before I’m coming in.”
It’s a breath of silence before I’m opening the door and pushing my way inside. But there’s no one in here. No one’s home despite it being past ten o’clock. I’m certain Greg had no plans for tonight. That’s why I was planning to come home early. To see him.
Call it intuition, call it my heart practically climbing out of my mouth, but something in my stomach – something toxic and deadly – tells me something is wrong.
As if the situation earlier, with Richard and Jimmy, was just a brief indication of something far deeper.
It’s as if I can sense tonight is destined for disaster.
I say that since this feeling is one I recognise all too well – the kind of discomfort I only ever get around family. When Greg would cry himself to sleep. The anger and rage I’d feel towards my father when he’d openly drink and smoke joints in our living room.
Practically falling down the stairs, I slip my phone from my pocket, balancing it between my jaw and my shoulder. “Pick up, pick up,” I plead.
Greg never answers – not ever. Not unless there’s something to worry—
“H-Harry?” he stutters down the phone, gasping from shortness of breath.
“Where are you?”
“In some a-alley, next to the club in town.”
Fuck.
“Stay there, and don’t move. Tell me exactly where you are.”
Over the commotion on the other end of the line, it’s hard to hear. But that’s not what stalls me. Instead it’s the unwavering certainty I just heard Dad’s voice. Though that’s absurd. We haven’t heard from him since the moment he left on my eighteenth birthday.
I’m already speeding in the direction before Greg’s finished relaying the details.
I pull my car haphazardly against the pavement when I arrive.
There’s a small crowd of people gathered, and I recognise my brother instantly, tears misting his eyes through the flickering of neon signs and dull streetlamps.
But the weapon in his hand stands out more than anything.
The hilt of a kitchen knife curled inside his palm.
No. No. No.
If I’d just stayed home this evening, none of this would have happened. I wouldn’t have killed my boss, and Greg wouldn’t be inches away from potentially stabbing someone in the back streets of Surrey.
As I draw closer, the disbelief of hearing Dad suddenly makes sense. Greg isn’t about to hurt anyone; he’s about to hurt his father.
Can’t the world just give me a fucking break? As if this night isn’t fucked-up enough.
I put my hands out in a gesture of peace as I approach Greg and the group I now recognise as Dad and those lowlife friends of his who’d drink in our kitchen. It seems little has changed, judging by the alcohol spoiling their breath and the way they’re tripping over their own feet.
“Greg,” I say warily, “put the knife down.”
He whips the weapon in my direction, his hands shaking. “You left me! You were supposed to be home.”
“I know,” I breathe. “I’m so sorry.”
“Oi, oi, son!” one of Dad’s friends chants. “I could take ya!”
“Come get me!” another wails.
Greg’s face is distorted with pain, and although his eyes are staring straight through me, I know I’m not the one at risk here. He’s been a completely different person since the moment Dad left.
And despite abandoning us and being barely able to keep himself upright with his drink in hand, I take a hesitant step in front of our father.
I refuse to allow Greg to carry the burden of murder, no matter how much I think our last remaining parent deserves it.
“Greg,” I say again, calmly, “give me the knife.”
He waves it in front of him and shouts, “You’re defending him?”
“Listen to me.”
“He left us, Harry!”
“I know.”
He takes aggressive steps forwards. “I’d be doing us a favour.”
“You don’t want to hurt him, trust me. Violence is not the answer.”
A tear slips from the corner of his eye, his voice catching. “And you would know, right?”
I clear my throat. “I do.”
A strong emotion swarms his features, and he takes several deep breaths before cautiously lowering the weapon, his posture stiffening. I sigh, thankful, and drop my head in sheer relief.
“Fucking pathetic kid,” Dad mutters from behind me.
I lift my head quickly, but Greg is already charging forwards, the knife aimed high above his shoulder. He stumbles into our father, impaling the knife deep into his chest as they crash to the floor.
“GREG!” I roar.
He pulls the knife free with a grunt, and blood starts to spurt from the open wound like a hose, spilling all over Greg’s clothes and onto the dirty pavement.
In the far distance, I hear mutters of, “Oh, fuck,” and, “Let’s get out of here,” before the crowd sobers quickly and stumbles into a weak run down the alleyway.
While the world around me seems to freeze and kick-start all at once, I fall to Greg’s side in a blink. Tearing the knife free from his hands, I throw it across the ground so it’s far out of reach. Grabbing his face, I bark his name, trying to get him to come to his senses.
“What the fuck have you done?”
His hands are shaking violently, his body struck still, staring at the scarlet liquid staining his fingers. He slowly lifts his head and turns his attention to me.
“Harry.” His voice wavers, and he takes a step back. “He … he deserved it.”
The worst part about it is he isn’t wrong. In fact, Dad deserved a fate worse than death. He deserved to live a shameful, awful life. If he ached for death, I’d wish for someone to grant him immorality just so he’d be forced to rot for eternity.
But I can’t bring myself to say that. I refuse to accept murder as a plausible option when it seems to be swarming me tonight.
“Get out of here. Get home and lock the doors,” I demand.
Greg stalls for a moment, his eyes running over the lifeless body on the floor.
“Just go!”
He pulls himself to his feet, hesitating again before retreating a few steps, one foot behind the other, before turning and sprinting down the alley.
I made a mental note to never contact Richard again after what he witnessed at the garage merely two hours ago. Ideally, he would be my last resort. Yet it’s like a chemical reaction as I slip out my phone and the business card, dialling the number on the front of it.
Richard picks up on the second ring. “Harry?”
“I need your help.”
“Death really seems to be following you around today.”
I can’t find it in me to laugh. “I’m being serious.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t move from where you are.”
He doesn’t bother to ask for my location before he hangs up, but strangely, that seems to be the less peculiar factor today.
I pass a sidelong glance to where Dad’s body is rotting on the ground. A thick red puddle surrounds him, moving quicker by the second.
“I thought I’d be the one to finally kill you.” The words fall from my mouth. “But Greg had the confidence to do it. He deserved to do it.”
I take small steps forwards, stopping only when the tips of my shoes sit just close enough to him that the seeping blood starts to slip underneath the soles. I tilt my head down, looking at the man who tainted my life with fucking misery.
Anger swarms my head so intensely I’m forced to roll it backwards to ease the weight.
I hate this man.
I fucking hate him.
I’m glad he’s fucking dead. I’m glad Greg killed him—
“FUCK!”
I slam my fist against my forehead, my hands shaking from the outburst. My fingers tangle in the front of my hair, pulling with such force it makes my eyes water.
Greg shouldn’t have done that. He shouldn’t have killed him, and he especially shouldn’t be shackled with the weight of murder as a teenager. Everything I’ve fought for all these years has been for nothing.
Fucking nothing.
I start shaking my head, retracing my steps along the alleyway.
My shoes are nearly worn out at the bottom, so I’m practically treading with bare feet against the pavement as I pace nervously.
Yet, as promised, ten minutes later, Richard walks into the alley where the remains of my dead father lie, composed and in that same immaculate suit.
The two men from earlier trail behind him, and I can just about make out the brief silhouette of someone else.
“Double kill,” Richard says when he’s only a metre away.
“It wasn’t me.”
“Greg?” he asks.
He knows my brother’s name?
Christ, who the fuck is this guy?
I bow my head, but Richard responds with an instructive nod. The two men get to work clearing the body.
“We’ll take it from here.” Richard tilts his head in a gesture to the person at his side. “Jack will sort you out for the night, but I’ll be in touch.”
Through the darkness, I can’t see much of their features, though from what I can see, Jack doesn’t seem much different in age to me. He carries himself similarly to Richard. The same straight back, rigid jaw. There’s no mistaking they spend a lot of time together.
“I won’t let you off as easily as the first time, Harry,” Richard says, that joking tone from earlier a distant memory. “You have nothing to offer me in return now. There’s nothing stopping me from sending your brother to prison.”
“I’ll do anything.” My voice turns strong in a desperate attempt to prove my loyalty. “I’ll help in whatever way I can. Just don’t … don’t get Greg in trouble.”
Even in the dim light, I spot the side-eye Richard and Jack throw each other. Like a moment of understanding. The guy, Jack, turns around and leads us onto the street. I follow silently, turning back one final time to watch Richard dishing out orders to those clearing up the scene.
Though my final look in Dad’s direction should be one of longing, I turn my attention to Richard, lingering for a moment as the questions surrounding him spiral in my mind. My brows pull together as he turns around, passing me a look. I turn away just as fast.
Jack approaches my car and holds out his palm for my keys. I hand them out to him and climb into the passenger seat as he gets behind the wheel.
“With each death you witness, the easier it gets,” he says as he drives.
“Richard said the same thing to me earlier, but I’m yet to see that.”
He chuckles and slaps my shoulder before switching on the radio. I’m thankful he doesn’t fill the car with small talk but regretful in the way my mind continues to spiral with the events of the day.
I don’t even think I could cope with facing Greg tonight – not after facing the reality murder now runs in our family – so I’m silently glad as Jack drives towards a detached brick house. He pulls onto the driveway and yanks up the handbrake.
“Welcome to my crib.”
We climb out the car, and he waits on the entrance doormat until I’m only a few steps away. He pauses as he pushes the key into the lock.
“My family lives here, so no mention of what just occurred back there.”
I swallow and clear my throat, rubbing my sweaty palms on my thighs. “Sure, yeah.”
“I’m nearing a kill of fifteen.” He finally turns the key. “I know what I mean about it getting easier every time.”
“Sorry?” I ask, certain I misheard him.
He opens the door, kicking off his shoes into the corner, but I’m still trying to bring myself back from what he just said. Shrugging off his jacket, he places it on the nearby hook, and I follow suit, cringing at the specks of red spotted across mine.
“Stay here, and I’ll get you a drink to help take the edge off.” He hits my shoulder playfully for the second time tonight. “Hey, relax. Just wait here, and don’t go killing anyone else.”
Something between a laugh and a scoff falls from my throat.
Jack disappears down the hallway, turning a corner.
With that jittery feeling still swarming over me, I start to move my feet, unable to stay still.
One of the rooms casts a shadow of light through the entryway, and a TV echoes from within.
I pass by it quietly, resting my shoulder against the wall parallel to the door.
In a moment of distraction, with my head down, a hand brushes my arm as though someone is trying to pass me. It’s followed by a sweet scent stealing every bit of my attention.
“Excuse me,” a voice says fluidly.
I apologise and take a step back as the girl squeezes past me into the living room. I keep myself hidden as I silently watch from behind the door.
The brunette with the addictive scent flops down on the sofa, passing a bag of popcorn to the blonde girl at her side.
There’s a silent exchange, the curl of a lip, and hushed laughter between the two of them.
The face of the girl from the hallway is obstructed by long strands of dark, silky hair and a hand pressed to her ear.
“Yeah …” She drags out the word, and it’s only then I realise she’s on the phone. “I can’t see you now. I’m with Mia—”
The person on the other end of the line cuts her off, causing the organ in my chest to tighten.
“But I—”
She’s cut off again.
“We’ve had this night planned—”
Cut off again. Something deadly curls in my lower stomach at whoever is disrespecting her—
Shut the fuck up.
You don’t know this girl. You don’t even know what she looks like and your protective instincts are surfacing like some territorial animal.
The thoughts appear almost simultaneously.
I’m fucked, entirely fucked, because when she hangs up, she pushes her hair from her face. The action is effortless, tired, but I completely freeze. As does the rest of the world, I’m certain.
Doe-brown eyes, capable of bringing armies to their knees, shine through the dark room. Eyes that perfectly compliment the hair I desperately crave to run my fingers through. Lips, slightly plump and calling to me, forcing me to step nearer, if only to hear her speak again.
She is simply the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.