THREE
“You’re late!” Carlo yells the instant I fall through the cracked, black wooden door. The heat of the bar is a welcome reprieve to the unseasonably chilly late August air.
I run my eyes across the floor. It’s busy. All but four tables are taken and our handful of regulars already prop up the bar. Gresh, my personal bar troll, lifts his glass to me and grins through black and broken teeth.
“Ran into trouble. Sorry, Cue-ball.” I dash to the back of the bar and shove myself through the swing doors leading to the two crappy patron’s bathrooms and Carlo’s office. He allows staff to dump their belongings in the lockers during our shift, insisting it is safer than the bar or the storeroom. Not that he keeps anything locked. Carlo doesn’t need to. The clientele wouldn’t dare steal from him. At six-foot-four and with dubious rumours about his time in the army, no one even dares upset him.
Nobody except me.
His stomping footsteps following me down the hallway suggest he is seriously pissed, and he has good reason. Five minutes’ tardiness is forgivable, but an hour? I’m lucky he let me through the door at all.
“Don’t fucking bother taking another step, Jules!” he shouts after me, taking three more strides and then stopping so close I smell the stale booze and cigarette smoke saturating his clothes; the bar’s signature scents. It doesn’t bother me; everyone stinks the same at closing time.
“What? Why?” But I know why. I feel his determination to kick me out.
“Why? You’ve been late five times in five days! You expect me to let that shit fly?” His fist smacks the wall beside his head. It’s a deliberate attempt to intimidate me and it might have worked if I hadn’t already had the night from hell.
“Listen, Cue-ball, it’s not my fault—”
“You walk in over an hour late and have the balls to tell me it’s not your fault? Get your shit from my office and get the fuck out. I’ll pay you for tonight because your dad’s going to kick your arse, but that’s it.” He folds his arms across his chest as if that’s the end of the matter, but he made a mistake mentioning my dad. I’m pissed. I going home to a beating—the cherry on my shitty cake.
“Damn it! Carlo, you know how he’ll be…he’s already looking for an excuse—”
“Not my problem, kid.”
“No, you’re right, I’m not your problem. My dad’s drinking isn’t your problem. My mum’s bruises aren’t your problem. The twins and my sister going hungry isn’t your problem. You know about all of it, but you turn a blind eye because we aren’t your problem.” Carlo takes a step back. He looks offended, but the way his eyes dart away confirms his guilt.
“But, see, I think you enjoy it,” I continue. “You know what he does and you let it slide. Is that a part of your plan? Get my mum to take her fill and then snap; finally leave him, is that it? Will you be waiting with open arms and arnica cream for the bruises, huh?” Carlo’s cheeks flush, the red even daring to creep over his shiny bald head. I know he holds a torch for my mum. That’s the reason I got the job. Throwing it in his face is a mistake, but if I’m fired anyway, I might as well tell him a few home truths. I’m so tired of keeping my mouth shut. My passivity is exhausting.
He stares at the floor, but his jaw flexes dangerously. I refuse to give him the chance to argue back.
“I’ve seen the way you look at her, but I think you’re wasting your time. She must love him more than anyone else in the world. More than you or me.” I’m all bile and spite, but I deliver my truth like a viper bite; swift and full of venom.
His guilt-edged glower shoots up to meet mine. “Why would you even say that?”
“Because how else could she stand by and watch him slap me around without leaving? If she won’t leave him for me, then why would she leave him for you?” It’s true and I know I say it to hurt him, but I don’t expect my voice to break or words to come out on a pitiful whisper.
Carlo reaches out, his stiff expression softens and his hand raises into the air as if to cup my face, but before he steps forward and makes contact, he drops it and sighs long and hard.
I don’t want his sympathy, anyway.
“Forget it,” I grunt, picking at my jeans and staring at anything other than his face. “I know it’s not true. She’d never let him hurt the kids and I stand up to him. I bring trouble down on myself. She does what she can to protect me. I know that.” I shake my head, but a part of me believes what I’ve said. If it were me and my kids, I would get them the hell away from a man like my father, no matter what I had to do to escape. It was something I never understood about my mum.
Carlo exhales a breath in a rumbling growl. “I don’t condone what he does, kid. Lord knows, I’ve repeatedly tried to talk your mum into leaving him, but she won’t hear of it—”
“Because you only want her. You want to save her, Carlo, but you’ve never once considered the rest of us. She won’t leave her kids. At least, understand that. I mean, I know you’ve never wanted me around, but they are babies. They’ll learn to love you so damn fast. I don’t have to be a part of that if you don’t want me,” I add.
His expression pinches again. “That’s not—”
“Don’t lie to me. Mum begged you to hire me. I’m not stupid,” I snap. It’s the truth. Both my parents told me often enough. Dad likes to hold it over me, but Mum figures if I grasp how tentative my position is, then I’ll work harder to keep it—and I do—but there’s only so much I can do. There are only so many tasks I can accomplish in a day, and getting to the bar on time after five a.m. starts and six-hour shifts at Butchers Bakers, then college lectures, seminars, all the chores I do for Mum, caring for the kids, and fending off my dad—with exhaustion and hunger and desperation dogging my steps the entire way—well, it’s just impossible.
“You’ve never wanted me here. You’ve always hated that I know how you feel about my mum.” Stepping forward, keeping my eyes trained on his, and fixing my expression into a mask of confidence, I make sure he knows I’m not afraid of him. “And you hate that I see the truth; that she would rather live with an abusive bastard than with you.”
“Mind what you say!” His hand flies up with his finger extended. It hovers close to my nose. Energy and heat surge from him. I fight the urge to flinch with how quickly he shifts from concern to fury.
“Or what? You’ll sack me? Hit me?” Too late. The boot or a fist. I know them both well. “I can take whatever you throw at me. Especially after the night I’ve just had.”
He drops his hand, shakes his head, and grumbles, “Fuck. You’re so much like your—”
“I am nothing like him!” My spittle flies and hits Carlo’s cheek.
“I meant your mother,” he retorts. His wide pupils fix upon mine and hold my gaze. The connection is uncomfortable. Stubbornness and confusion swirl through me. Carlo is scary when pissed, but I understand fear. It’s my long-time companion. It isn’t fear that draws my interest in Carlo’s words, it’s curiosity. I already knew Carlo and Mum had history together, but something in his tone implies their history delves much deeper than just old acquaintances.
“What do you mean?”
“She was a fighter, too. She was mouthy and stubborn and fucking beautiful.” If I held any doubts about how Carlo feels for my mum, he dashes them. He loves her. His whole demeanour softens, his face and body relax, his eyes look left and fill with swirls of light and shadows as though remembering how she was when they were young. I see his expression fill with the hope of youth and then watch as that hope drains away once more. He sniffs a lungful of air through his nose and breathes out a deep sigh. “Before your dad. Before he broke her,” he concludes, and I sink into the air of defeat that surrounds him.
I stare at Carlo. His grisly dark brows lift from their constant furrow, the wrinkles around his eyes smooth and reveal that he would have been striking when he was younger. He is still an attractive man with his blue-green eyes and thick lips, but his tattoos, beard, and bulk make him appear intimidating. That and his don’t fuck with me attitude.
I take a second to structure my thoughts into a question. “So, you knew her before Dad did?”
“We grew up together, kid.” Carlo takes two steps back and leans against the wall. He crosses his arms over his chest and shakes his head. A sad chuckle huffs from his mouth. “If I’d stayed around, your dad wouldn’t have got near her.”
Then I would never have been born. Sounds good to me.I can’t stop myself wondering what it would have been like if Mum ended up with Carlo instead of Dad. Would she have been happy? Would they still be stuck here in Harrison Vale? The questions are as pointless as their fictional answers. We can’t change the past.
“Well, it’s nice reminiscing and all, but I need to get my shit, right?” I turn toward the office.
“I swear to God, Jules. You’ll ruin my reputation,” Carlo complains behind me.
“Wh—?” I spin to face him. I can’t tell what he means without reading his expression.
“Why were you late? You said something about the night you’ve just had, what did you mean?” he grumbles, standing to full height and dusting his jeans off with heavy-handed slaps to his sides.
I don’t know what happens. Maybe it’s the fact that he takes the time to ask, but my fight—no—my resolve abandons me. If my determination is a woven cloth, then someone pulls all my threads at once. I unravel in front of Carlo.
I hold up my hands, turning them palm up so that Carlo can see the dry blood caked in every crease of my skin. For a split second his gaze catches on my watch, his lips pulling into a frown, and then it’s like a bulb goes off and his face drains of colour as he finally understands what I’m showing him.
“What happened?”
“A man got shot. I tried to help, I really did, but he wouldn’t wake up and they took him away.” The corridor rocks back and forth, over and over, until Carlo places his hands on either side of my cheeks and holds me still. “I didn’t know what to do.”
“It’s okay,” he murmurs softly.
“I came to work even though I knew you’d kick me out.”
“It’s okay, Jules.”
“I came here even though you don’t want me around. I have nobody.”
His thumbs trace the hollows under each eye as I stare at the undulating plaid of his blurred shirt. When he pulls his thumbs away, they’re wet.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, words slow but firm.
“What?”
“Are you hurt? Did you see the incident? Are you in any danger?” This time he rattles the questions off quickly, barely giving me time to process them.
“No. No…he was on the stairs. I found him. But it happened fast…Someone came and went…Someone shot him when I was hiding.”
“I’m not sure what you’re telling me, Jules.” His furrowed brows shadow his eyes, but he keeps them trained on my face. “There is blood on your hands. Is it yours, yes, or no?”
“No.”
“Good. That’s good. Come with me.” One large arm wraps around my shoulders and steers me to his office. I recognise nothing, even though I’ve seen the office a thousand times before. Carlo walks around the room. I focus on him, trying to steady my thoughts. He swims into focus when he sits on the edge of the sofa beside me and hands me a glass. I don’t recall sitting down.
“Drink. It’ll help.”
I sip at the amber liquid. Relishing how it scorches as it slips, like silk and fire, down my throat. The burn brings me back and anchors me.
“Sorry.”
He shakes his head and rolls his lips into a tight frown. “Don’t apologise. I should have noticed the blood.”
His comment draws my attention to my fingers and the glass. Red fingerprints smear the rim and circle the base. “I’m ruining your glass.”
“It can be washed,” he dismisses, holding out his hand. “Eat this.” The familiar rustle of a candy wrapper reveals his intention. He’s being too nice. I don’t want his candy or his fake concern.
“I’m okay. I’ll go now.”
“You’re shaking. You’re in shock. Eat the damn candy bar, Jules. The sugar will help.” Ripping open the bright red wrapper, he hands me the candy. I nibble at first, my stomach sickened by the thought of putting anything substantial inside, but I’m hungrier than I thought, because I finish the bar in minutes. With my cheeks stuffed and my jaw working on the toffee, I offer Carlo a small smile of thanks.
“I should take you home, but I don’t think that will be any better than here.”
No. Home was worse. I shake my head but have little choice when I know he wants rid of me.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. So, let’s get you working. If you’re here, you can pull your weight.” He stands, crosses to the locker against the wall and slams his fist against the lock. The door pops open. He pulls out a clean uniform and throws the sweatshirt at me. “Go get changed in the bathroom. Wash your hands and ditch your bloodied shirt and jacket in here. I want to see you behind the bar in ten minutes. You hear me?” His tone is as sharp as always, but his temper doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s still being nice to me. I’m not sure how that makes me feel, but it’s a chance I can’t afford to overlook. A chance of safety for a few more hours and a chance to keep my job.
I nod and paint on a resolute smile. The sweatshirt smells of plastic, but that’s okay. Anything is better than the smell of blood. I walk on legs that are not my own to the ladies’ restroom and lock the door.
Glaring at my torn shirt and wincing at my stained jeans, I run the tap and pump liquid soap into my palms. I start on the shirt, cleaning off the worst of the blood. Despite what Carlo said, I can’t take it off. There’s no way my dad will believe me if I go home without it. I shove the rolled-up jacket into the clear plastic bag the sweatshirt came in and look around for my backpack before remembering that I basically trashed it at the foot of the stairwell. My life was in there. At least if it couldn’t save me anymore, it’d saved him.
I rinse, lather and repeat, this time focussing on my fingernails. If only memories could be washed away as easily as skin. Hands scrubbed— even if they don’t feel it — I splash my face and stare at the girl in the mirror.
She’s too thin, her ribs are visible even through her tank top. Her sunken blue-green eyes are dull, surrounded by bruises and filled with shadows. Her sunshine blonde hair is lank and lifeless, and her mouth splits her face in a tight, fierce line. She presses her hands against the counter to hold herself up.
She is the sky after a year of rainy days. Worn, tired, and tormented.
She is what I’ve let myself become. I watch her weep for me, tears streaming down her face in silent rivers. She deserves a moment of self-indulgence, but only a moment. I need her to be strong, if not for herself, then for the kids.
A moment passes.
I splash my face again, drag the clean sweatshirt over my wet shirt and pull myself together.
I have work to do.