FOUR
Gigi
It’s strange. One minute you never knew of someone’s existence, and the next you can’t imagine life without them …
Well, that’s kind of a lie.
Harry tends to pop in at the most inconvenient times. It’s as if he’s trying to make being in his presence as uncomfortable as possible. Greg says he’s got a property not too far from here, but he still pops in for some seriously bizarre reasons.
One night, Greg and I were sitting on the living room sofa – he’d been trying it on all evening – when Harry barged in through the front door as if he owned the property – I know he does, but I choose to forget that insignificant detail – asking if any eggs were going spare in the fridge. Without so much as looking in our direction or waiting for an answer, he took the carton and exited through the front door.
The next time he popped in he needed milk for coffee … Strange. I always assumed someone like him would take their coffee black, but that’s me stereotyping. It would’ve been ten times quicker for Harry to walk to his local corner shop, but alas, he took the pint of milk and retreated.
I reckon he’s trying to assert his presence now he’s back in town. Each time he visits, Greg grinds his teeth together so tightly I’m convinced I’ll hear a molar crack. And whenever I try to press further with questions, he shuts me down. I only ever get the same regurgitated story: he chooses not to associate with him, they fell out about seven years ago, and they hardly speak.
One day, however, the story finally cracks.
It’s a random weekday when Harry strolls in asking for some rice and then leaves without another word. Greg’s calm composure splits right at the seams, and he whips his head towards me.
“Remember when I said Harry and I don’t get on?”
I nod, trying to hide how my body picks up with interest.
“He’s involved with some fucked-up people. He’s an awful person. I can’t explain—”
My brow creases. “I thought you said he was a photographer.”
“He is.” He nods his head frantically. “Just promise me you’ll keep your distance from him. I can see the look in your eye – you’re intrigued by him – but as his brother , I know being around him is the last place you want to be.”
“Just tell me. You can talk to me.”
“No!” he huffs. “He fucked up my childhood, Gigi. Why don’t you believe me?”
I sigh and bow my head. “Okay, okay. I trust you.”
After that, I convince myself Harry isn’t a good person to be around, yet my intrigue towards him still lingers. There’s still this gravitational pull in his presence that forces me to look at him – even if he doesn’t so much as gaze in my direction. Not that we’re ever in the same room for long enough to have a full-on conversation. Thinking about it, I’m not sure we’ve been in the same room for more than two minutes at a time.
Each time I remember the trouble Greg went through as a child I sympathise with his suffering. But knowing such deep secrets were kept from you is a hard feeling to shake …
After staying at Greg’s house for a few more nights, and with the information Mia brought to light about the break-ins, I make the decision to return home to my parents. The longer I leave it, the harder I’ll struggle with having to face them again.
It’s on a Saturday afternoon, after another ball-aching shift at work, that I feel the tension at tea as I cautiously ask, “If I say something, do you promise not to freak out?”
My mother’s body stiffens. “If you must …”
I sigh, preparing myself. “Mia looked into all the recent burglaries in the area. All of them had motive—”
“Your father and I found a wonderful flat in the area that’s perfect for you, sweetheart. Didn’t we, Husband?”
“Mm,” he hums, taking a mouthful of food.
“The rent is a little on the higher end, but we don’t mind topping you up. It’s more of a maisonette than a flat, really. It’s situated in Blackheath, two bedrooms, right near that cute little rugby club—”
My eyes squint to slits, Mum’s voice dulling to silence in my ears. The edges of my vision darken and her face becomes my primary focus, her words ringing in my eardrums like white noise until all I can see is her mouth moving. My hatred grows with each passing second, and I look her dead in the eye, imagining blood pouring from her hairline, trickling down her face, with an eerie similarity to the first time I laid eyes on Harry St. James.
My head tilts as I envision impaling her with the knife resting in the middle of the dining-room table, pushed deep into the succulent chicken. My fists clench at my sides as I imagine what it would be like to feel the pulse of her throat vibrating against my palm with each thrash—
I throw my cutlery to the table as if it’s scalded my palms.
What the fuck is wrong with me!
“Gigi!” Mum tuts. “Where are your table manners?”
Manners? I just imagined killing my own mother!
“I … I have to go.”
I jump to my feet, ignoring the way they beckon my name to clean up my dishes. My only thought is that I need to get out of here, and fast. Since it’s pretty much my second home at this point, I drive to Greg’s house and storm up the front steps. Digging under the mat for the key, I unlock the front door and step inside.
“Greg?” I call out.
No answer.
I slump down on the bar-stool in the kitchen and let the contents of my bag spill out onto the counter. I open my laptop and anxiously wait for the screen to turn on – until the turning lock distracts my thoughts.
“I was wondering when you’d be home,” I say, meeting silence.
From their presence alone, I know it’s not Greg.
Looking like a cliché bad boy, Harry pulls a dark helmet off his head and shakes out his hair. Standing just a few metres away from me with the protective gear tucked under his bicep, we make eye contact, and no matter how quick it is, the action amps my heart rate.
He walks to the fridge, his back to me as he opens the door and scans the contents inside. “Thought I was your boyfriend?”
I clench my jaw. “Greg’s not my boyfriend. Not that it’s any of your business.”
The bastard laughs, but the sound lacks humour.
I grit my teeth as the cruel sound seeps into my bones. Every story Greg has fed me about Harry in recent weeks rises to the surface. My fingers twitch, the lingering argument with my parents threatening to unleash through me.
Before I know it, I shoot to my feet and argue, “You know, it’s pretty sick to leave a young child to fend for themselves. I’m not sure what happened between you two, but you’ve done some fucked-up shit by the sound of things.”
He turns round slowly, his eyes roaming over me. “Is that what he told you?”
I stare back. “That’s what I know.”
He cocks his head to the side and then walks forwards leisurely. I stand my ground as he gets close enough that I can smell the mint on his breath and the burnt rubber from his jacket.
He practically smells like trouble.
We stand toe-to-toe, and I tilt up my chin, keeping my eyes on him. He leans his head down, amusement tickling his mouth. “You should get your facts straight before you start spreading lies, princess.”
“I’m no princess.”
“Are you not?”
He stares directly into my eyes, but he’s not looking at the colour – he’s looking deeper, straight into my soul. I cringe inwardly, like I’m exposing every deep-rooted secret to him. A chill races up my spine. I feel him everywhere. But not physically. Never physically, come to think of it. A peculiar look passes over his face as if he’s seen something he didn’t expect. Silence stretches between us, and it’s in this moment I realise I despise this man.
Finally, he breaks the tension and takes a step back, turning his head towards the door.
“You didn’t get what you were looking for,” I say.
His hand wraps round the doorknob, and he cranes his head over his shoulder. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that.”
He closes the door and leaves .
Throughout the entire interaction he didn’t lay a finger on me, always remaining at a distance so I couldn’t touch him, no matter how close he stepped.
Something must’ve altered his brain chemistry the first night I saw him. At hearing my name, something rattled him.
And I’m determined to find out why.