Fight (8 page)

"And you needn't think I'm not.” Carl shoved him backward. “You don't give gifts then take them away. Fuck off, old man.” He left the kitchen, left his father standing there bunching and unbunching his fists, arm muscles flexing along with his jaw. Outside, he tossed his holdall in the back seat of his car and slid into the driver's seat.

"Hey you! Fuckin’ wait a goddamn minute!” Kevin ambled out of the house, feet planted a foot apart on the slatted wooden porch, his arms curved at his sides as though he was ready to fight. He stepped off the porch and into the yard, heading for the car. “If you've gotta go, just you remember what I taught you, you hear me?"

"What's that, then?” Carl asked, knowing full well what he'd meant. He slammed the door closed and wound down the window.

"About keeping those you love in line. Teaching them how it goes. How it's gotta be."

Carl laughed and shook his head. “Like I could ever forget.” He paused. “From what you told me, it applies to every relationship, right?"

Kevin beamed, his dirty teeth peeking from between wet lips. “You're goddamn right it does!"

Carl slid the key in the ignition and started the car. He raised his voice. “So you won't mind me coming back in a few years and applying it to you, right?” He gripped the steering wheel, palms sweating, heartbeat racing at the thought of his return.

"I'd like to see you try!” Kevin's hearty laughter burst out of him, his dough belly juddering.

Bile burned the back of Carl's tongue, and he swallowed it down. “You would?” He winked. “That's good, then, because I'll be coming back for you."

Kevin blinked, and his mouth worked. He moved closer to the car, fist poised to strike through the open window. “You what? You
what
?"

"You heard me, old man. Now fuck off inside and enjoy the time you've got left."

Carl reversed down the short driveway at speed, missing the gate post by a whisper. Out on the road, he smiled. It turned into laughter—that of someone who had found freedom from a lifetime of constraints, rules, and abuse—and drove with no destination in mind, uncaring where he ended up. Anywhere was better than there.

WELCOME TO HIDCUP! The weathered wooden sign had Carl's stomach rolling. The familiar landscape on the outskirts, all scrubland and old-fashioned houses dating back to the 1920s, brought back a rush of memories, nostalgia for the happy times he'd spent in his youth. There weren't many, he'd admit that, but summers spent climbing trees and playing war with his school buddies brought on a sad smile. Only home held bad memories, and there were too many of those for him to count. He grimaced and cleared his mind, turning down a right-hand road that led to his childhood home. A wave of sadness enveloped him at the sight of the two-story situated halfway down the street. It looked the same, as though time had stopped and he'd only left yesterday. He parked up on the opposite side of the road and killed the engine, chuckling at the irony, for wasn't that what he'd come to do? Kill the engine, the one thing that had kept him going since he'd been away? Hell yeah, he'd returned to take his life back, to douse out the life of the one person who prevented him moving on.

Carl rubbed his sweaty palms up and down his thighs then leaned into the back seat for a grocery bag. Hunger griped his stomach, and he dumped the sack on his lap and rifled through the contents. He pulled out a package of sliced cheese and ripped it open, ramming two pieces into his mouth. It tasted good, so he finished the lot then dug into the bag again, bringing out a deli bag of salami. After eating it all, he rested his head back and stared at his old home through half-lidded eyes. His old man would be at work, if his past habits were anything to go by. Getting out of the truck, Carl locked up and strode across the road. He walked up the driveway and onto the porch, his guts clenching and his heart ticking way too fast for his liking. It seemed as though he'd been transported back to his younger days, when coming home meant fear and admonishment. And the belt.

Breathing deeply, he took a set of keys out of his pocket, surprised to find his father hadn't changed the locks in all this time. He obviously hadn't taken Carl's threat seriously. Anger at Kevin's lack of belief burned in Carl's gut, and he stepped inside. Stale air smacked into him, the same aroma he'd smelled as a kid, the same dusty, moldy stench he'd vowed would never seep into his own home. He bit back a retch and closed the door. As he stood in the hallway, he felt like an intruder, yet at the same time it was like he belonged. The walls held memories, which bled out now, taking him back to places he didn't want to go. His eyes stung, and he angrily swiped away the tears.

No. He's not going to affect me like this. Fucking jerk.

He prowled the house, noting everything remained the same. The kitchen still bore evidence of neglect, of a man who didn't know how to clean. Teabags, dried and yellowed, sat in a pile on the countertop. Sugar grains from an obvious spill hadn't been wiped up. Dirty dishes stood piled in the sink, and the tap dripped, just like it always had, a steady plop-plip-plop, although those droplets seemed fatter now.

A damn washer change, that's all it'd take. Jesus.

Carl shook his head and turned from the squalor, making his way through the living room. Newspapers in a haphazard pile looked on the verge of slewing off the coffee table, down onto a floor in sore need of vacuuming. Dirt, food particles, and dust bunnies covered the beige carpet. The sofa sagged in the middle, the old spring that used to jab Carl's ass a little more exposed now. A thick layer of dust covered the wooden sideboard, a circle of less-thick dust showing something had been recently moved. A cup, maybe.

Nothing's changed. Not a goddamn thing.

Upstairs, he pushed open his bedroom door, steeling himself for what he'd see.

Jesus Christ!

His bed remained exactly as he'd left it, the quilt bunched into a ball, the sheet and pillow bearing the shape of his body and head. A musky scent lingered, one of filth and corruption, of a kid growing up with no mother to clean the house or stroke a fevered brow. He swallowed the lump in his throat and blinked several times, determined to remain focused. His mind had other ideas. Where was his mother now? Did she ever think of the little boy she'd abandoned to a life of depravity and unhappiness? Had she moved on to a new relationship, with kids she'd baked cookies with and ensured were clean and well-fed? If she had, how did he feel about that? He didn't know, didn't want to entertain the thought of discovering half siblings that reveled in the care he'd missed out on. It wasn't their fault, but shit, they were lucky bastards.

A phlegm-filled cough sounded, as though out in the back yard, and Carl moved to the window. He gazed down on the sandy, grotty area, at the old beige hammock he used to swing on with his eyes closed, the summer breeze tickling his tear-stained face. At Kevin, who now swung on that seat, hand-rolled cigarette in hand, smoke oozing out of his mouth.

What the fuck is he doing out there in this weather?

Though the sun shone, it was hardly warm enough to be outside, especially not in jogging bottoms and his customary stained vest. Carl studied his father. Not everything had remained the same, then. The old man had aged, his stubble tinted with grey, his hair peppered with it at the temples. He looked haggard and weak, and Carl smiled, pleased at the bastard's decline.

Taking in a deep breath, he left his bedroom and walked downstairs to the kitchen, standing at the closed back door. He regarded Kevin again through the dirty square of glass, the wrinkles on the old man's face evident at this closer vantage point. Did the guy have any remorse? Was he sitting there now, thinking of what he should have done? What he could have done differently? Would it matter if he was sorry for the past?

No. It doesn't matter. What's done is done.

Carl swung open the door, the hinges giving their familiar whine, and stood on the threshold. Kevin sat upright, the hammock stilling as he planted his feet firmly on the ground. His eyes widened as he peered at Carl, then he shot out of his seat and threw down his smoke.

"What the fuck are
you
doing here, kid?” Kevin adopted his usual pose—hands on hips, legs at ease—and his chest expanded.

Carl almost laughed. “Came back like I said I would."

Kevin chuckled. “Let me see now. What was it you said? That you were gonna
apply
the same thing to me as I'd done to you.” He chuckled again and moved toward Carl, hands by his sides, fists bunched. “Well, we'll see about that."

Turning, Carl went back into the kitchen and yanked open a drawer, taking out a carving knife and holding it behind him. Kevin entered the room a moment later and slammed the back door, his ruddy face belying his anger. He flicked his head in an attempt to shift the lank lock of hair that had streaked across his face, but it didn't budge. With a huff, he brushed it back with his hand then took two paces toward Carl.

"You got a belt, kid?"

"Nope."

"Well? Don't you need one?"

"Nope."

"So how you gonna
apply
shit on me?” His laugh puffed out of that stinking mouth with its stained teeth and tongue yellowed from years of tobacco. Kevin stood like a wrestler, his arm muscles now soft from lack of exercise.

Amazing how a man can stay in shape from using a belt too often.

Carl gritted his teeth.

"You not gonna answer me, kid?"

Carl stared at him, at the bulging eyes that indicated Kevin teetered on the precipice, anger about ready to boil over.

"You'd better fuckin’ answer me, or so help me God..."

Carl lunged forward. The blade whipped across Kevin's throat before the old man had a chance to register Carl's movement. Blood arced from the knife, splattering the filthy cream wall and the fingerprint-smudged fridge to their right. Kevin's eyes widened, and he staggered against the back door, hands raised to a gaping, blood-filled throat. His fingertips sunk into the wound, and he slid down the door, his chest and vest front crimson. Gargles issued from the old man's throat, those ugly teeth bared in a grimace of pain. Carl watched, fascinated as the blood went from spewing to oozing with the stopping of Kevin's heart. He stepped toward his father and drew the knife back and forth over the unsullied, lower half of the vest, then turned and calmly exited the house. Knife still in hand, he strode across the road and unlocked the pickup, getting inside as though what had occurred hadn't. Tossing the knife into the back seat, he started the truck and pulled away, intent on finding an out-of-the-way motel.

He headed back toward home—his real home—and pondered on how long it would take for Kevin to be discovered. Days. Possibly a week or two. A smile touched his lips on imagining the stink of the old man's body as it bloated and began to decompose. Whoever found him had better have a strong stomach.

Carl laughed and picked up speed. He had the urge to fuck and fuck hard. He'd pay cash at a motel then venture into the next town in search of a clubber who needed release as much as he did.
Fuck yeah
.

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I didn't have much of a choice. Vic stepped back, putting an appropriate amount of distance between us again. Oddly, the warmth his proximity had lent remained. I glanced up, and those deep brown eyes met mine.

"Ready?"

I shook my head, knowing all my desperation showed in my eyes. Carl always said I was too easy to read.

"I know.” His voice had gone soft. “I know. I wish there was another way.” He glanced over to the door of the station house, then back to me. “I'm not going to let them railroad you. Promise.” He wrapped gentle fingers around my arm, just above my elbow, and the absolute lack of force struck me as odd.

"You'll—you'll stay with me?"

"Right beside you. I'll process—” He clamped his mouth shut and frowned. “I'll do the paper work and things."

"Process me.” We were mounting the stairs by then, and the building loomed, dark and slightly rundown. “You'll process me.” One thing I was beginning to understand about my life; it was just easier to call it what it was.

"It has to be done."

I nodded. “Then I want you to do it."

He pulled open the door then and manoeuvred me inside ahead of him. It felt like procedure at that point. Hubbub inside made it hard to focus, and I held back, hoping for the reassurance of his bulk behind me. He grunted and gave me a light shove, just to keep me ahead of him. Was I supposed to act like a criminal? I wasn't anything but scared shitless.

"Over there."

He pointed past me to a desk in the far corner. Partial walls delineated the space, and as we approached I realized there were two desks, facing one another, and the other was occupied. The man sitting at it turned, stood, his eyes flashing.

"Where the hell have you been?"

"Calm down, Chewy."

I stifled a hysterical giggle. The guy was slightly more hairy than average, and taller than Lil.

He made a low rumbling sound to go with his frown as he plopped back into his chair. “You should have called in. Who's this?"

"Mind your own homework.” Vic pointed to the guy's desk, strewn with piles of forms and reports. “I'll put him through."

"You bring some punk in without calling for back-up, not even your own partner, and I'm not supposed to ask?"

"You're not supposed to ask,” Vic agreed.

"That's him!” this exclamation, from behind Vic, brought the big cop back to his feet and turned Vic's head, but not before I saw the resignation on his face.

"Sit down, Colly,” Vic snarled at the speaker. “I got it."

"Leave him,” someone else said quietly, though the look I got from that cop scalded. “This is his collar."

I glanced at Vic, but his back was to me. “This isn't a collar,” he said. “Not yet."

"Yet?” My voice might have squeaked. In fact, it did, and Vic spun back to me.

"Sit."

He pointed to the chair by his desk, and I sat, perched on the front edge to give my shackled hands room. From there, I had a good view of Vic glaring the rest of the room down. He was playing his role of partner to the dead cop right to the hilt, but I could see the strain in the set of his shoulders and his tight grip on the back of his own chair. No one spoke.