FORTY-EIGHT
Gigi
The rain is harsh against my skin. It pounds my cheeks with fury, to the extent that my skin is numb as the rainfall and my own tears blend into a watery cascade.
People tend to ache for the sun to beat down on their cheeks, letting them know the recently departed are looking down at them in the darkness. But I don’t feel like that.
I want the rain.
I want the thunder.
I want the rest of the world to grieve in misery as I am.
While I didn’t know Oliver for as long as the others, I owed him my life.
He only wanted to leave a legacy for his son – the money was never important to him primarily. He was fulfilling one final job before leaving the Circle for good.
Members can’t quit so easily, but people respected Oliver in a way no one else understood. He, his wife, and his son were planning to go to Disneyland, but now the date will be full of grief and misery instead. He died on the front line during a heist, when a bank employee slipped his gun out from the emergency stash and shot him straight in the head, killing him on impact.
When I first heard the story I felt utterly numb. It was so eerily similar to what happened on my first heist.
My heart feels like it’s splitting right through the centre. I watch his wife and child while Oliver’s coffin is lowered into the ground. Despite the day resembling nothing of summer, his wife is wearing a large, wide-brimmed sunhat and dark sunglasses to conceal the burn in her eyes, her blonde hair sticking to the back of her black trench coat in the pouring rain. She stands directly behind her son, rubbing the tops of his shoulders as he bows his head. The young boy, no older than five, wears a black suit that practically drowns him. The heaviness settles in my chest, and I bite my bottom lip, holding back a sob.
No child, especially that young, should have to deal with the grief of losing a parent.
The last time I stood in the face of death was when my own brother’s coffin was being lowered into the ground. It’s like I’ve been physically backhanded.
“Tenderly, lovingly, and unforgivingly, we commit the spirit and body of Oliver Lark to a more peaceful place,” the priest says. “We now say farewell, and may you rest in peace. Thank you for being you.”
The man is old – much older than Oliver – perhaps in his early seventies, and his hair is grey. For a moment I wish it were him in the ground. He’s probably lived a long, happy life thus far, and his children are most likely grown-up with kids of their own. But Oliver will never see that. He’ll never see his young boy come of age, finish school, find a partner, and settle down.
My throat swells, and I feel sick, emotion welling in my eyes. I blink them away, feeling guilt for crying when there are people here keeping their composure together.
To me, Oliver was a man I knew in corridors, a colleague, a breath of fresh air, the reason for my success – but more importantly, he was someone I admired. No matter what a criminal record might say, to me his slate was clean.
“You okay?” Andy asks, his voice quietly echoing beneath the umbrella above his head, which is being beaten with rainfall.
I nod, focusing on the ground beneath my feet. The rain is so heavy that mud is starting to seep into the grass.
Harry has taken it hard. He’s watching the ceremony. Somewhere. There are hundreds of people here paying their respects, and I think he snuck off to take a quiet moment. I so desperately want to console him, but I understand his reasoning for being alone.
The service wraps up, and the group of us associated with the Circle leave the family to say their final goodbyes. Oliver’s family asked for a private wake for immediate family only, since that was his biggest love, so the rest of us are having a drink in his honour back at the headquarters.
Within the hour we’re sitting in one of the lounge rooms, the large coffee table in the centre littered with wineglasses and beer bottles. Oliver’s gun has pride of place in the middle, alongside a photo of him. My eyes bore into the picture, trying to etch his features into my brain.
I only saw him a few weeks ago.
I saw him the morning before he died.
Oh God, I told him to be careful.
I told him to be careful, and he wasn’t.
Now … Now he’s—
I shake my head, refusing to accept the truth. Poppy is seated at my side, her leg bouncing frantically against the floor and stealing my attention. It’s the first time I’m thankful to have her in such close proximity. She takes a shaky sip from her glass, her eyes staring at nothing.
“Do you remember when he first joined,” Whizz Tech Dan asks, picking at the sticker on his beer bottle, “and he brought in packed lunches because he hated the idea of wasting money?”
“And his wife cut the sandwiches into triangles,” a girl says, her voice breaking .
A breath of silence fills the room.
Andy speaks up. “He didn’t deserve any of this. That could have been any of us.” He locks eyes with each person in the room individually, but I feel the effects personally. “His blood family may be together right now, but his second family is here.”
Poppy lifts her glass, rubbing her cheek against her shoulder to catch a stray tear.
“To Oliver.”
“To Oliver,” the room echoes.
I take a sip from my wineglass, my eyes falling on Harry. He’s sitting on one of the sofas opposite me, repeating the words in a silent whisper, far too quiet for anyone to hear. He runs his fingers around the rim of his beer bottle, clearly lost in thought. Then, exhaling a breath, he places it on the table in front of him before standing from the sofa and exiting the room.
Andy catches my line of sight and nods subtly, insinuating I should follow.
When people start up conversation about their favourite heists with Oliver and everything he contributed to the team, I excuse myself to use the bathroom, following Harry out the door.
“Harry?” I whisper, looking around.
I check my immediate vicinity, poking my head into the cafeteria and walking past the billiard room, to no avail. The home seems eerily quiet and lacking in life, missing the soul within. As I step into the hall a cold gust of air hits me from the ajar porch doors leading onto the patio.
Approaching the door slowly, I feel Harry’s presence before I see him. Rain clatters against the roof above his head and echoes around the small space. There’s no doubt there’s a sombre mood across camp, but this seems different. Harry looks completely cut off, almost as if there’s something else on his mind. And I know better than to leave people riddled with their own guilt, especially grief .
His eyes flicker up to meet mine as my steps echo on the cold patio tiles. He maintains eye contact momentarily, taking a drag of his cigarette. There’s a far-off look in his eyes as he returns his attention to the gardens in front of us. What used to be vibrant, bright flowers and luscious greenery is now soaked in the downpour, drab and dismal.
“Are you okay?”
“Not particularly.”
“Something’s bothering you,” I say carefully. “I can tell.”
The cigarette in his mouth twitches with a slight movement of his lips. “I’m at a funeral. What wouldn’t be bothering me?” He takes another drag before deciding he’s finished. He pokes out the stub on the glass ashtray to his left.
I take a step forwards, my hand falling to his bicep, where I rub up and down his suit jacket. He doesn’t push me away, but I feel his body stiffen.
“You can talk to me,” I whisper.
He pushes the cigarette so far into the ashtray it disintegrates between his fingers, but he continues to play with the grains even when they’re far past crumbs.
“Talk to me,” I plead gently. “I’m right here, Harry.”
Saying his name seems to gather his thoughts together, and he retracts his hand carefully, brushing away the residue on his trouser leg.
“Are you?” He meets my eye. “Are you right here?”
“Of course I am.” I frown. “Tell me what’s bothering you. I can try to fix it.”
“You couldn’t.”
“Try me.”
“What if that was you? It could have so easily been you we were burying today, and you know it.”
Ah, there it is.
He’s right. Of course he’s right. It was one of the first things I thought when Andy broke down in the boardroom. But I knew the risks when I signed up to the criminal lifestyle. I know I’m putting my life on the line every single day, with the fear I might not be coming home.
Life is different now. The Circle is a life worth dying for – a motto we all breathe daily to remind us that loss is a potential no matter how tragic it may be.
“It could easily be you too,” I say.
Harry tears his gaze away, but I catch his chin, bringing his face back to mine. “But it’s not … I’m right here. We’re together in this moment. Right now.”
He pulls my hand from his cheek, clutching onto my fingers. “You’re here until someone walks through those patio doors and sees us together.”
Letting out a slow breath, I say, “You know the risks, Harry.”
“I’d rather have a sliver of you than none at all, but there’s only so much I can take.”
He’s right. And I hate it – with every fibre of my being.
The toll on his mental health is clearly more impactful every day.
And I know if he gets much closer, this could break him.
I can’t risk Harry living in the fear I might not come back from a job, thus tearing himself up with guilt if anything were to happen, though the alternative of not having him around seems unbearable.
… But I’ve been fighting for this my whole life.