The Edge of Sanity (3 page)

Her dad had crept up to check on her. Kayla knew he would. He always did, but she’d kept quiet, kept her eyes clamped tight shut, because she didn’t want to see the pain in his eyes. The pain she’d caused.

And then, he’d left. Bye, Kayla. Cheers. Nice knowing you, but not that nice. See you around. Yeah, right. He never said a word. Not a single word.

She’d gone to the window when she’d heard the front door close, watched him head off across the boatyard. No jaunt to his walk anymore, no sense of purpose, he’d looked like a man defeated.

Sometimes, Kayla wished she could go back. Take a trip in the Tardis and step out to a time when she had her dad all to herself. She missed how they used to be: The way he’d muss up her hair, or tickle her until she nearly wet herself. ‘Can’t sulk when you’re laughing, can you, Kayla?’ he’d grin, and show her no mercy.

Maybe he thought she was getting too old for all that stuff now? Kayla supposed she probably was. She’d had to steel herself to ask him for money a few weeks back. Money above her allowance, which she’d already spent. She’d have been more comfortable asking her mum, but Jo rarely emerged that early in the morning anymore.

‘What for?’ Daniel had asked, irritated as the toast popped belatedly and the smoke alarm went into overdrive.

‘
Dammit
!’ he’d cursed then, turning away to toss blackened toast in the bin. ‘I haven’t got any cash on me, Kayla. You’ll have to ask me later.’

‘But Dad, I need it now,’ she’d insisted.

‘How much?’ He’d searched his pockets.

‘Three quid.’

‘I haven’t got three quid, Kayla. A pound will have to do.’

‘But a pound isn’t enough, Dad.’

‘Is it ever?’ He’d sighed, ramming the kettle under the tap, soaking his shirt, and obviously shortening his temper further. ‘What’s so important that you have to have it right now, Kayla? You could show a little consideration, you know? I have the Boat Safety Officer coming in …’ He’d checked his watch. ‘
Hell
, ten minutes.’

Kayla had shuffled and mumbled, while Daniel clattered the breakfast things into the dishwasher. ‘The cash dispenser’s in Worcester,’ he had pointed out impatiently. ‘Not inside my wallet, Kayla. So unless you’ve any bright ideas as to how I’m supposed to get there and back before you leave for—’

‘It’s not my fault we don’t have a car!’ she had blurted.

And Daniel’s shoulders had stiffened. He’d turned slowly around, a tic playing at the corner of his mouth, which Kayla knew to be a small but significant sign. He was well-annoyed.

She had stepped back, wishing she could backtrack. She had touched a raw nerve. She shouldn’t have said that and she was sorry, but … They weren’t the only ones hurting around there. ‘I need to go to the chemist!’ she had shouted defiantly, standing her ground, her jaw tight-set and her eyes threatening to spill over.

Daniel scanned her face, his anger turning to frustration as the penny apparently dropped. ‘Oh,’ he had said quietly. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’

‘I just did,’ she had mumbled to her shoes.

‘I’m sorry, Kayla.’ He’d moved towards her then, placing an arm around her shoulders, for all of two seconds.

Yep, she was too old for all that touchy feely stuff now, obviously. Who needed it anyway? Consigning the memory to history, as her dad was obviously content to consign her, Kayla ferreted through her make up bag, then upended the contents onto the breakfast table.

Raking her spiralled curls from her face, she checked her sleepers and nose stud, and then carefully applied two coats of lash-lengthening mascara. Being only fifteen presented no probs when it came to getting into Strobes. She would pass for sixteen at a glance. With the assistance of Urban Decay, her new shoes, and a padded plunge bra, eighteen was easily attainable.

‘Uh, oh.’ She checked her watch, scooped her face back into her bag, and then reached for a quick corner of toast.

‘Oh, gross!’ She flicked at the wasp happily breakfasting on her breakfast, which buzzed frantically around the kitchen, then homed in on the jam jar.

Patiently, Kayla waited whilst it ventured from the rim of the jar to the fruit of its labours. Then, ‘Ta, ta,’ she said, and slammed the lid tight.

Chapter Two

Charlie stumbled to the bathroom, trying to fight off the overwhelming urge to throw up. He failed, just short of the toilet.

‘Shit!’ He skirted around the after-pub curry to stuff his face under the tap.

Thirst satiated, he dragged a hand across his mouth and admired himself in the mirror. ‘You are one good-looking bastard.’ He winked, waggled pierced eyebrows, and then winced.

‘Oh, man, man,
man …
my
head,
’ he moaned, zigzagging up the hall, back to the bedroom. He’d got well-wasted last night, so high he was floating, but now, he had come way down low. Charlie prided himself on not doing drugs before breakfast, but he needed a buzz, and fast. This morning-after stuff was seriously depressing him. He padded across the bedroom and stopped short of the bed. What the hell was
she
doing in it?

Oh, man, he must have been wasted. She was one ugly slapper. If Rachel found out, she’d go totally ballistic. But then, she wasn’t about to find out, was she? Not now she’d gone
home to Mummy.
And that sour-faced old cow wouldn’t let him within fifty miles of Rachel, the state she was in when she went.

Like it was his fault about the baby … and everything. None of it would have happened if Rachel would just keep her trap shut and stop slagging him off, looking down on him, like he wasn’t good enough. Just like her bloody mother did.

Just like they all did.

He cared about her. He had said so. Said he would stick with her, didn’t he? What more did she want? Why didn’t she just keep it zipped? Always had to be whining about something. Was it his fault they suspended his benefit? Wasn’t enough to buy a pot to piss in anyway. They could stuff it.

He’d got a few things going on. A drug deal here and there. Nothing major league, yet, but enough to bring in some dosh until he had built up his clientele, which he would. Up there with the big boys is where Charlie intended to be. A million miles away from this sodding dump—and the skinny kid they’d all spat on and shunned in the school playground, because his dad was banged up and his trollop of a mother was shagging everything in sight.

Rachel just had to keep going on about him getting a job though, didn’t she? As if, when he did get some dead-end job, it ever lasted. People were always telling him what to do, that was the trouble. Charlie couldn’t abide it.

Self-important bastards ordering him around, like he was insignificant.

All his life people had told him to do this and that, as if they had a right to: teachers, social workers, probation officers, foster parents, his drunken whore of a mother, DI-bloody-Short down at the station, Uncle Tom Cobbly and all, deciding it was their right to push him around. Rachel shouldn’t have kept trying to tell him what to do. He wasn’t taking that sort of crap anymore, especially not from a woman. No way.

Shame about the baby though.

Tea, he thought, snorting a quick line of top stuff and wiping his nose on his arm. Nice and sweet. He needed the rush.

‘Cup of tea, darlin’?’ he called to the slapper, feeling a bit more charitable now the coke had hit the spot.

Wasn’t her fault she had fallen for his charms, he supposed. He didn’t even have to work at it. They just fell at his feet. Mind you, that was usually the other side of the night. He normally got shot of them straight after, preferring to get his shit together in private. Image was all, after all, if he wanted the respect he deserved.

‘
Mmm
,’ she mumbled sleepily, as he headed for the kitchen. ‘Such a gent.’

‘My thoughts entirely,’ Charlie chuckled, definitely on the up now, until he opened the kitchen door—to the overpowering stench of urine.

Charlie’s good mood evaporated. ‘
Christ
!’ A little knot tightened at the base of his skull. He glared at the puppy quaking in the corner. ‘Filthy bitch, you just don’t learn, do you?’ he seethed, launching himself across the room.

But the dog was quicker. Ducking under the table, it made a dash for the door, before Charlie’s foot made contact with its hindquarters. ‘
You
are kebab meat, dog!’ he snarled after it.

Cursing, he grabbed a tea towel to mop up the mess and then tossed it in the corner. Maybe he should just drop the bloody animal around at Rachel’s miserable mother’s. That would wipe the supercilious smirk off the old bag’s face. Allergic, she was. With a bit of luck, she would choke to death.

Agitated now, he yanked the fridge open. No milk, of course. There was never any milk. ‘
Shit!
’ He slammed the kettle on—black coffee better than nothing, he supposed, then searched for a cup, and then searched some more, tossing newspapers and carrier bags from the Formica-topped table to the floor.

‘Typical.’ He headed for the sink to turn the washing up bowl upside-down, the contents of which clattered into the sink. Why was there never even so much as a clean-fucking-cup in this place? Did he have to do
everything
himself?

The letterbox rattled noisily behind him. Charlie glanced up from his labours to see the slapper wandering panda-eyed into the kitchen, leafing through
his
private post. And what was more, he gawked, she was wearing
his
shirt! Unbelievable!

‘Morning, gorgeous.’ She smiled at him, and then blinked bleary eyes at the dog sniffing warily around her ankles, wagging its tail. ‘Oh, bless, who’s a pretty little girl, then?’ she cooed, bending to tickle its ear and make silly kissy noises.

Soppy cow, thought Charlie, eyeing her with ice-cold contempt. ‘Leave it,’ he snarled. ‘Bloody thing’s pissed all over the floor.’

She pouted. ‘Don’t be so mean. She couldn’t help it, could you, baby? She’s only a puppy. You shouldn’t keep dogs in flats anyway. It’s cruel,’ she informed him, as if he were dense or something, then yawned, stretching her arms above her head.

Charlie’s eyes nearly fell out. Smack he wasn’t into this early, but he was hallucinating anyway. Either that or the tart was wearing his best FCUK shirt with nothing underneath.

‘Get us that cup of tea, will you?’ She wound him up further, running the tip of her tongue over her lips. ‘My throat feels like sandpaper. Can’t think why.’ She winked suggestively and gave Charlie a coy little smile as she turned towards the bedroom.

‘Slag,’ Charlie threw after her.

The tart stopped in her tracks, shaking her head as if she hadn’t quite heard him right, then whirled around as Charlie sprang to his feet, the chair clattering to the floor behind him.

In a split second, he seized the shirt collar, popping the one button she had fastened. He didn’t much mind about the shirt anymore though. His mouth twisted into a smirk as he watched the coffee drip from her startled face to bleed into the cotton-rich fabric.

Mary Sullivan opened her mouth, and then clamped it shut again, fast.

Bewildered, she searched his face. Gone was the charming smile of the night before. In its place, a vile sneer. And his eyes … Where had she seen that look before?
Jaws.
She had watched in on telly with her mum. The bloke had dead eyes. He was one slice short. Oh, hell. She had made out with a maniac.

‘Ouch,’ she whimpered as he twisted her hair around his hand and dragged her back into the kitchen. ‘Charlie, don’t.’ She squirmed. ‘You’re hurting—’

‘Shut it,’ he hissed, yanking her head around until she was eyeball to eyeball with him. ‘I said
you
are a whore! A slut,’ he spat, shoving her hard against the wall. ‘Got it?’

Mary stayed where she was, sprawled on the dog’s bed. She didn’t look up, for fear of provoking him further. Though what she had done in the first place … Oh, God, please, please help me, she prayed silently.

Distractedly, Charlie kneaded the back of his neck. ‘Take it off,’ he said quietly.

Mary’s head snapped up. ‘What?’ she croaked, confused.

‘Are you deaf as well as stupid?! Take the fucking shirt off!’

‘Okay,’ Mary sniffled, placating him; playing for time. ‘Okay. If that’s what you wanted, you should have just said. You didn’t need to—’

‘And shut your trap.’

Mary closed her mouth. She would be quiet as a church mouse, if that’s what he wanted, until she could see a way out of this … hellhole.

She struggled out of the shirt, folded it clumsily and offered it hesitantly to him. Then swallowed hard. Charlie held it at arms-length, eyed it disdainfully, slammed his foot on the pedal bin and shoved the offending garment inside.

Mary felt faint, more frightened than she had ever been, but above all, she was feeling nauseous. What would he do if she was sick on the floor? She closed her eyes and held tight to her stomach as he loomed above her. What
was
he going to do? If he wanted sex, why didn’t he just say. Why did he …? What
did
he want?

Charlie sank his fingers into the tender flesh of her forearm and yanked her roughly to her feet, then rammed his elbow against her neck, forcing her head against the wall with a crack. ‘Do not,’ he spat, eyes bulging, ‘
ever
tell
me
what to do? Got it?’

Mary blinked hard against the oppressive black. Perhaps she should let go, slip into unconsciousness, now, before he … Oh, God. ‘Yes.’ She gulped against his restricting hold on her throat. She almost slithered down the wall when Charlie relaxed his grip.

‘Wipe your face,’ he instructed, his mouth curving into a smirk as he passed her a sodden tea towel from the floor.

Charlie waited while Mary sobbed and dabbed at her face. ‘That’s better,’ he said, almost cheerfully. ‘Now, turn around!’

Mary kept her cheek pressed hard against the wall, her eyes tight shut, her tears soaking into the damp-saturated plaster, urine assaulting her senses.

‘Right, I’m off out,’ Charlie said pleasantly behind her, as if they’d just shared breakfast together.