Chapter 12
Mallory
I place my keys back in the fruit bowl.
Every noise, every movement is amplified by the adrenaline coursing through my blood as I stand in the kitchen, amongst the unchanged debris of the party, waiting for the dust of my thoughts to settle into something I can make sense of.
It amounts to: holy shit.
I hold my breath, listening for Ronan. He’s still asleep. He has to be. Nothing has changed. Nothing here has changed.
I’m safe.
My phone vibrates, making me jump.
It’s Daddy.
You coming or what, sexy?
I am about to delete the app, but stop myself, sliding my phone into my pocket.
I open the cupboard under the sink and quickly pull on my Marigold kitchen gloves. With a bowl of cold water, fairy liquid and salt, I wipe the blood from my coat, using the stain remover where I have to. When it is done, I hang it gently back in the hallway. It should be dry by the morning.
I take out the bleach spray and a reusable wipe, and I begin to clean. I clean the kitchen top to bottom, scrubbing and scrubbing, binning and washing, my eyes alert to every piece of dirt. When I have wiped the last crumb from the counter, I enter the living room and turn on the lamp.
It is so cosy in here. Studio Green walls, a fireplace with an oak surround, candles that I actually burn, wooden floorboards with a beautiful green and gold Persian rug – gifted to Ronan when he closed a huge deal.
I walk straight over it and take my laptop from the bottom drawer of the dresser, then sit in my armchair by the fireplace.
The same chair I see my therapy patients in.
I open the laptop, bring up a fresh Word document and begin to type, my fingers working quickly.
Draft 1
Genre: stark realism.
Trigger warnings: sexuality, poverty, addiction and abuse.
Chapter 1
‘What do you want?’ the man said, stood at the door.
The boy held out the little plastic bag. He had done it time and time again – but this was different, he could feel it in the marrow of his brittle bones. Inside the bag, inside the house, a world that he loved. He needed to get inside. That was all he needed.
‘I’ll check it,’ the man said. ‘Wait here.’
The boy nodded and pulled his arms around himself – his T-shirt soaked through by the rain – as the man stepped back into the hallway of the house.
He was a boy, but not a boy. Twenty-something, with the face of a teenager and the stories many pensioners, sailors and raconteurs could only dream of. As he waited at the door, he noticed the roses were in full bloom. He studied their petals, and saw their beauty. The door creaked open.
‘Where’s the rest of it?’
‘It’s all in there.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘No – I’m not.’ But he was.
‘Fuck you, Leo. You pussy slut.’
No.
I delete.
‘Fuck you, Liam. You pussy slut.’
The man slammed the door in his face. As Liam stood staring at it, he knew he had to sell himself tonight so that he could eat tomorrow.
‘Liam,’ he heard from behind him.
Before he could turn, a heavy weight plummeted into the back of his head. He felt the pavement before he saw it.
He was alone.
He lay on the floor in the rain, waiting for someone to save him.
But no one came.
I move the cursor to the top of the page and type the title.
SLAY
A novel by
M.M. MADDOX
I feel his pull. Leo.
Liam.
My new protagonist. This has invigorated me beyond any creative desire I have had since Shallow Embers, the wedding, Ronan. Ever.
And I need more.