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Chapter 3 Part 1
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2020-07-29 18:55:59December 6th, 2012
Morning
“How’s Bertrand?” Tami flicks her cigarette at me with a cruel, small smile. She’s about as fuckable as they get. Blonde bombshell. Though the type with a rather thick Yorkshire accent and smoker’s teeth. Dark brows. A deep tan. Bright blue eyes. That winning, albeit dull smile. A bog-standard cockthrob.
“Bert.” I say, stiffly at that.
“Like Bert is any better.” She struggles with the T’s.
James buts in now, all dark hair and dazzling blue eyes. “’You reckon he’s off fucking Ernie right now?” They laugh. I laugh with them. I’ve got to. My pride is at stake.
“Shut it, wanker, you wouldn’t know if you’re on foot or horseback.” James doesn’t take kindly to this. His charming bright smile falls. Suddenly, he’s glaring at me. He doesn’t mean it. He never does.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Now, he stands. Takes a cigarette from Tami. Does that little walk
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“You’re looking a bit better.” He’s staring at me while I settle into my seat. Eyes so keen and dark and unreadable. So closed-off to the public. To everyone, really. I haven’t a clue what’s going on in there. He doesn’t mean that he likes the way I look. For some reason, I must remind myself that. I’ve got a bit of colour, mum would say. She would pinch my cheeks and smile at the pink. If she was here, she would compliment the freshly dyed hair. Tell her I looked like grandma. We would dance and sing together about superstitions and princesses. All would be right in the world. “Did you eat yesterday?” “No, but I wasn’t up and about much, either.” I stare into the empty glass of table water. My throat is feeling rather dry. Somehow, I don’t think water will help. “Last time you were having nightmares you weren’t eating. Or sleeping.” Why is he so closed off? He stares into my eyes as though he’s talking to a patient, rather cool and matter of fact.
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December 1st, 1999 Afternoon Damon “Chloe?” The house is silent, bar the click of the front door closing. Awfully so. A draft comes through the living room, so brittle I swear it could knock me off my feet. An alarm clock is ringing. She’s slow to stop it, the sound lofting around with that cool breeze. Or maybe she’s not home. I shrug off my coat. Lay it across the back of the couch on my way to the window. The rattle of a door in its frame stops when the window slides shut — I hadn’t noticed it, either. Somehow, the house is more silent now. “Chloe!” “Damon!” She pops around a corner, flaming hair twisted up at the crown, strands billowing around her face. She’s wearing an especially well-worn cardigan, the skin around her eyes dark and sunken. She hadn’t been sleeping. I can see that. She’s in the bed with me each night, breathing steadily, what does she do for those hours? Stare s
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June 8th, 2011 Morning The sky whips around us. The trees have sprouted leaves again. The countryside is a bright green. The sky a brilliant blue. The air has warmed, though not by much. It’s strange, the sensation of beaming sun on my bare legs. Fills me with sleep but invigorates me all the same. I hug my cardigan tighter. “Where are we going?” I’m almost afraid to ask. The not knowing is most exciting. “I’m sure you’d love to know.” He reaches over, squeezing my hand. His skin has turned already. A deep, warm bronze. Hair mousy and bright. Tousled. Untouched. He wears jeans. A thin button-down. Wild chest hair peaks through the top. Sometimes I wish I was his biological daughter. If only to be that beautiful. “I would.” He grins. A cheeky, bright smile. “That’s too bad, Isn’t it?” And drops my hand again. “The beach?” “No.” “The harbour?” “Isn’t that the s
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August 19th, 2002 Morning “Wait! It’s right here!” I rock over the top of her, suddenly peering at the tips of her toes. I almost barrel straight over. I would have taken her with me. Like hitting a wombat. Tiny, but solid. Enough to crush the radiator. I made that mistake on my first and only trip down under. It didn’t crack up to be half the fun I had hoped. Hot and awfully flat. That was my impression of it. “Here?” The world spins around me as I straighten up—it’s a right struggle to, at that. But those tiny trainers and planted firmly in the woodchip. She’s surveying the equipment with a purpose rather unlike an eleven-year-old. “I’m not seeing this secret base.” I was expecting a nook dug out beneath the slide. That was where mine had been. We’d nicked a telescope from my mate Thomas’ house. Used it to stare through the neighbouring windows. I certainly saw some things a child my age ought not to. I do hope she’s n
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“What?” Tami is at my side, yelling between us. “His wife moved in again after like ten years, apparently they separated but never divorced?“ I pat at my jean pockets, looking for my card. I need another shot. “You reckon he killed someone?” Tami somehow sounds more British than usual. “He had a kid?” James seems to be concerned for different reasons. “Well, he didn’t deny it when I asked — he said that they all know how the kid died and who was responsible. Bobs your fucking uncle. Another tequila please!” I think the bartender is eavesdropping, she’s already looking when I sway in her direction. I need both arms to hold myself up. “On the house.” Probably shouting me a drink for the entertainment. “Damon would never.” Tami is frowning. I’ve always thought she wouldn’t mind boinking him. She did seem to fancy Damon, actually. And why wouldn’t he? I’m a bit more interested in my shot. It’s gone quite
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December 16th, 2012 Evening Damon She hardly stirs when I drop her a little more suddenly than I intended to. Of course, her bed is unmade. It always is. And she’s got a pile—mind you, a somewhat tidy one—of clothes in the corner of the room. “You need to change.” As I speak, I wonder if she’ll pretend to sleep. But she opens her eyes a couple of centimetres. “I need to sleep.” Her eyes are closed again. “Unless you want to be changing your sheets bright and early tomorrow, you need to change.” “Change me, then.” Her eyes are still closed, and a good thing at that. I’m afraid I’ve gone a bit pink. At least, I feel I have. “I’m not sure that’s appropriate,” “Why not? You’re my dad.” She rolls over. And part of me wants to accept the offer just to see her in her underwear. And another, somehow worse, part of me hopes that she doesn’t have any on. “Gues
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December 19th, 2012 Evening Damon “We forgot about the news yesterday!” Sasha is sat at the other end of the couch, her toes just inches from my thigh. I’m really not sure when I became corrupted by fantasies of her feet. They’re quite pretty. Long, slender. Straight toes. Cropped, painted nails. Protruding veins. I can imagine them padding at my crotch a little too vividly. My jeans are a bit tight. “Tarantino’s film was scrapped because of Sandy Hook.” I watch as she squints, probably trying to remember her own headline. “They dug up those two murderer blokes from In Cold Blood,” I don’t want to tell her she’s won by kilometres just yet. “Why?” “Something about some murders in Florida,” So I just nod quietly, pretending to turn it over for a moment. I wonder how I managed to let that one slip through the cracks. I’ve only read the novel
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“Ah…” It’s the only sound I can make, half-hidden by a gasp, hands through his hair. And he pulls back. I’m just soaking. I can feel it. “That—that little sigh you do and your fingers in my hair.” And his lips are trailing from my sex down to my knee. Until he draws back. And sucks my big toe between his lips. Mouth hot. Tongue soft. I just want him to have me already. He draws back again. Lips drawing a line from my knee, dangerously northbound. I can’t take it. “I just love it when you come. I can’t get enough of it.” I can’t help it. Another “Ah…” escapes me as his mouth clamps down on me and his fingertips brush my clitoris. It seems to embolden him, encouraging him needlessly to rip me to shreds on the bathroom counter like he should have that first night. And I hate the fact he’s memorised everything that drives me to the edge, if only to bombard me with until I feel my heart could give way. “That shower is still running.” I’m talking
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January 25th, 1997 Morning Chloe Want to test your marriage? Move back home. Rather, your husband’s home. On your first wedding anniversary, no less. Practically to the minute. I know, I should be sympathetic. His mother has cancer. Still, I thought I had married a man who despised small towns as much as I do. At least, that’s what he told me. He hadn’t lived until he’d seen London. Got amongst its busyness and decrepit charm. Yet we’re northbound, and rather quickly. Sat in a rental truck that feels it will topple over if we round a corner too suddenly. The provincial furniture rocking in its rump so blissfully. It has no idea it’s headed straight to its grave, never to be looked at by anyone of note again. He promises we’ll be back to the city when she’s better. Healthy as a horse, he thinks. Loins of steel. Built like a machine. She acts like one. Has never cared all that much
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January 6th, 2013 Evening “If you can’t even move that couch, I don’t think you’ve got much chance with your hands.” I dig in my heels a little harder. I’m determined. Besides, it can’t be that heavy. “I’m not getting a gun—I don’t ever want to fire one.” “Pepper spray?” Begrudgingly, he joins in—with a small huff and the roll of his eyes. His shoulder brushes mine. I’ve pretended not to see his eyes. Or to have heard the huff. I suck in a breath. Put my weight into it. “No weapons. I don’t want to have to count on anything.” “Okay. I get it.” I think he does all the work. The couch slides towards the dining table like it’s on wheels. Moves, nonetheless. That’s all I wanted. “This should be enough room.” I step into the centre. The rug is nice and plush. I don’t think it will hurt too much if incoordination victimises me. It will. I just know it. “What do I do?” I’m not too
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“What?” Now I just want to hide back behind him. Damon seems to know. He steps in front of me. “You can’t search her; you’ll need a female officer to.” “I can search her; I just can’t take her clothes off.” Again, with that smug smile. He claps his hands together. Peers around Damon’s shoulder to me. I was right to hope for two more magpies. “Now, shall we do it here, or do you have a more private place you would rather.” “Show me your warrant.” Damon seethes. “I was hoping you would ask.” I can see him fish into his pocket. “Finished my two-year probation yesterday.” “Did you know about this?” Suddenly, Damon turns to face me. Thrusts the card toward me. Looks a bit like a student ID in a fancy wallet if you ask me. With a stupid, god-awful photo of this git rather blow-up. “Know about what?” “He’s a detective, Sasha!” He shouldn’t be yelling that; I can only imagine the things it woul
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January 6th, 2013 Morning I’ve been staring through the tiny window all morning. I saw a single magpie on the way here. It tailed us in the car. Swooped down like we’d stolen its babe. Flew off into the distance like some mysterious harbinger of death. I waited for another. Even two. I think I would rather death than sorrow. At least death would put me out of my misery. Not give me another reason to want it. “I thought you might need this.” I hadn’t noticed he was even close. I’m a shotty receptionist. Damon is leant over me. His elbows on the counter. A disposable cup in his hands. “What is it?” I lift the lid. Foam. Dark foam. Coffee? “Cappuccino.” He’s smiling. He’s got to know I’m not impressed. “I know. No coffee with milk in it. Just try it, won’t you?” “Will it make you happy?” I’ve been struggling with the lid. I don’t know how the baristas get them on. “Very.” I take a
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January 5th, 2013 Midday “I think we need a redo,” When he walks back over, he knows better than to come empty-handed. A cup of steaming coffee threatens to spill with each step. A stupid, playful grin is the only warning I’ll get. I think I have a good enough idea what he’s after. I lean forward. Prop my chin up in the palm of my hand. I’m ready. “Of?” He sits on the same un-cushioned chair he did last time. The halls are quiet, Tami tapping away happily at a keyboard is the only sign of life for kilometres. It’s the palliative care ward, after all. His chair is just as disagreeable when he scoots closer. He reaches forward again, rakes the hair from my face, and I can’t help but lean in because at this point, it’s all become instinct. His lips brush mine at first. The other winding through the back of my hair. And I don’t care that we haven’t spent a moment together alone since Tuesday. That I worr
