by Anna Bloom
“So?” His stare is frank. His hair is greying, but his forehead is still smoother than the average sixty-four-year-old. “You don’t marry for love. You marry because it’s right and then hope love follows.”
“And if it doesn’t?” We’ve had this argument so many times I’ve lost count. “I don’t want to love like that, and we can’t keep going over it. I’m not marrying Elijah Fairclough. He’s in love with someone else, a person who I admire and respect.”
“The lower class.”
“Jesus,” I mutter into my glass. “You can’t talk like that anymore. Classes don’t exist.”
“Of course, I can. If one person has millions of assets to their name and the other doesn’t, it puts them in a different class.”
Oh God. We are about to head into the realm of the “New Money” speech.
“I don’t think money matters, and you know that.” In my head I think of tattoos, fingers, and moans. I warm a little and shift in my chair. My head has been going there a lot the last couple of days. The place where tattoos cover bruises and bruises cover something else; something deep and dark under the surface.
Dad, sensing I’m pulling away, changes the subject. “Your mother wanted to invite you for dinner on Sunday. I hope I can tell her you can come.”
“She could ask me herself. There are these things called phones. Sometimes people use them to dial a number and talk to a person.”
“I shall take that as a yes.”
God, no. I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to sit in the silence that echoes around the family home, making polite small talk with people who I should be laughing with, loving in the crazy way I believe families should have. I don’t want to be looking at my mum and feeling guilt for the life she lives. I don’t want to see that fake smile and know there is nothing I can do to help her apart from what I already try to do.
“Okay. Any reason for the dinner?” I ask.
“No, I don’t believe so.” There’s a flicker in his grey eyes though and I know he’s lying. Lying comes all too easy to the Richards family. Lying is the norm.
“So, tell me what you are working on.” He leans forward, switching all his attention onto my face for our weekly interview.
I sigh. “I’m researching for Elijah; but I can’t discuss the case.”
“I thought Elijah was out of country?”
“He was in New York, but I believe he is back now.” I don’t add that I know he’s moved back into his own house, leaving Faith at the Fairclough London property, alone. I definitely don’t need to tell my father that.
Food arrives which I didn’t order; but I pick up my fork, grateful for a break in the conversation.
“Have you thought of Scott Harrington?”
I nearly choke on my scallop. “Excuse me? Scott Harrington? I haven’t seen him since university.”
“He’s doing well for himself. Investment banking, I believe. Quite a buzz.”
“What do you mean thought of him?”
“As a match.”
I put my fork down, picking up my napkin and dabbing my mouth, trying very hard not to puke into it. “Dad, I’m thirty; my ovaries aren’t packing up and retiring yet.”
“Sienna, do you mind!”
My lips stretch into a smirk, but I hide it behind a cough.
“I’m just saying, for the benefit of the family, we need to consider your prospects now this Fairclough deal is off the table.”
“I’m not a deal, I’m your daughter.”
“And I don’t want to leave you with millions and no direction.”
“Where the hell are you going? Bloody hell. Dad, this is exhausting every week. Can’t you just let me live my own life? I don’t need your money. I earn plenty well on my own.”
“Pfft, muck gathering for other lawyers. I never thought my daughter—who was always so bright—would end up an investigator, practically nothing, when you could practise law, shining a path of honourability.”
Five, four, three, two, one.
My blood boils, fizzing and popping in my veins.
My toes scrunch in my heels.
I push my plate away, my appetite gone. Dad glances down. “Eat up, girl, you must eat.” He spears a chunk of lobster with his fork and munches on it while staring at me thoughtfully. “Yes, I think Scott is an attractive proposition. His family is solid, although not gentry obviously, but they stand well. He has a salary more than substantial of his own, so we won’t need to worry about family assets, although of course all of that would be taken care of in a pre-nup and any arrangements that I make.”
“Dad.” I try to interrupt him. “I haven’t seen Scott in nearly a decade. I wouldn’t recognise him if we bumped into each other down the street.”
He waves his hand at me, deep in his own plots and plans.
I can’t do this anymore. I pull at the neckline of my dress which is too tight around my neck, strangling me and cutting off the air supply I desperately need.
My gaze darts to the door; freedom exists out there. Temporary freedom. If I leave now, there will be consequences. I squirm in my seat for a moment. Dad sucks on a bit of lobster claw and I nearly puke.
“I’ve got a headache. Sorry, I need to get home. I’ve got work tomorrow.” I drop my napkin onto my untouched plate.
“Yes? Where will you be digging dirt this time?”
“Brighton.” It slips out before I even think and Dad’s eyes light, shining with victory.
“She will be the end of that family, and then won’t Connie regret not making her grandson toe the family line. Now, darling, don’t forget Sunday. Your mother has it all organised.”
I lean over and kiss him on the cheek, but he’s distracted now, his mind busy, planning how to keep the Richards on top.
Outside, I unlock the car. I didn’t finish my glass of champagne so don’t need to worry about driving. I don’t have a problem driving after my meals with my father. It’s usually the hours after when I’m trying to recover from it.
I start the engine and head out into the late night traffic. With my phone on the hands-free I call Eli.
“Yep.” His voice is deep, scratchy.
“You sound awful.”
“Mm. Life is just peachy.”
“Eli, you bloody idiot. You’re the one who walked out.”
He sighs and I can imagine my friend rubbing his hand along his stubble, the worries of the world weighing down on his shoulder.
“I had to. She will never fight if I don’t give her the space to get there.”
“It’s a risky game to play.” Shit, I sound like my father.
“Had dinner with your father, Sienna?” Eli asks drily.
“Shut up.” I drum my fingers against the steering wheel. “Listen, I was calling because Dad was waffling about your nan. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s up to something.”
There’s a pause. “Yeah,” his response is low, empty. “Thing is, Sienna, there is nothing left for her to break.”
My chest clenches at his desperate statement. Is this what we’ve all come down to? Bright things with the world at their feet; broken and empty. Life taking its toll before it’s even begun; while the power-play's of our families shift the pieces on the board of life without paying us any heed.
“How’s things gone with Reggie this week?”
Reggie Fitzpatrick is the lawyer Eli has hired to prosecute Faith’s case. I know how many noughts Reggie is getting on his cheque. Hell, I know how many I’m getting on mine. Eli plays the game, but he fights in ways others don’t grasp. Faith’s case, which could have been free under the Crown Prosecution Service, is costing him a pretty penny. He won’t care though. She’s the only thing he cares about.
“Fine. I’m heading back to Brighton tomorrow. I want to speak to more of their old classmates.”
“What do you mean their?”
Oh. “I meant her.” I cough to cover up my mistake. “I meant her. Some of them will still be around the
area I reckon. I’ve got the class list so I shall tick them off.”
“Be careful with Dan. He’s a pressure cooker about to explode.” How does he even know? Elijah seems to know most things—apart from how to fix his own relationships.
“Mm.” What else to say?
“I don’t know what shit he’s into, but I have a feeling it’s deep enough his only way out is in a box.”
My stomach lurches and I wince against the sensation.
“She’s pregnant.”
“Sorry? What?” Weren’t we just talking about Dan?
“Faith. She’s nearly thirteen weeks pregnant.” His voice cracks.
“Eli! Hell. What is going on with you? Why aren’t you there?”
He doesn’t answer for a moment. I glance at the screen to check if the call has dropped. “She’s got to fight to meet me.”
“She’s been through so much.”
He sighs again, heavy and unrestrained. “You have no idea.”
“Don’t make it worse.”
“I’m trying.”
“But?”
“Apparently I make things worse just by breathing and helping.”
I chuckle under my breath. Faith takes no prisoners. Pregnant, I’m sure she’s borderline ferocious. “It will get better. Once we get that arsehole in jail it will get better.”
“I know.” It’s a whisper.
“I’ll help where I can.”
“I know.”
“Speak soon, cowboy.”
He chuckles a little at my old nickname for him from uni. “Night, Sienna.”
The call disconnects and I keep on driving. How can I help? Can I even do anything? The community in Brighton is like trying to break into a Gestapo headquarters. People are tight, their pasts even tighter.
The car approaches a signboard. Left to home. Straight on to Brighton. There it is, down the A23.
I know someone who knows everything that happened.
I could go and find out now. Get started early. It’s only half ten. He’ll be up.
For Faith and Eli… I could tell myself that the whole way down there. It would be a lie.
I keep the car straight. I don’t turn left.
It takes an hour and fifteen, but thankfully I remember my way around the one-way streets to the house that looks nothing on the outside, but inside contains an empty family home.
I get out of the car breathing in deep, smoothing my dress across my hips. What the hell am I doing here?
Research?
Yeah, right.
With a harsh breath that fills my lungs to the absolute maximum, I step up the short path to the door. I knock, my stomach tying into painful knots.
Then I knock again. Then again. There are lights on all over the place. He has to be there. A loud thump lands from the other side of the door. My skin tingles with sweat despite the chill of the air. I knock again. “Dan, are you there?” What if he’s not there, and he’s being burgled? Do burglars turn on the lights?
What if it’s the friends of the piece of shit who hurt Faith? I know Elijah had a run in with them. What if they are in there now, hurting him?
My belly lurches, my pulse racing as I knock on the door harder.
The latch clicks and I breathe with relief. Okay, Sienna. Calm the hell down. I don’t even know why I’m getting uptight, anyway. This is just business; just a start on helping Faith anyway I can.
“Holy fuck.” My words shatter into the night sky as the door swing open. It’s Dan, I think. But it’s not Dan because the monster swaying in front of me is covered in blood and clutching at his middle, a sticky red trickle sliding down his face.
“Alright, darling? Once isn’t enough, eh?” He pitches forward directly into my arms.
My heart thumps and unexpected tears spring from my eyes. I clutch him tight and try to manoeuvre the giant of a man back over the doorway and into the safety of his house.
What the hell has he done? It’s the only thing I can think. There is nothing else in my head. What the hell has he done?
I drag him back and wrestle him onto the couch, my pulse banging in my ears.
He’s tried to kill himself. A voice in my head shouts so loud I can’t ignore it.
“Dan,” I whisper, smoothing my hand over his forehead, brushing at the hair matted into blood. “Dan?” The world screeches to a halt. The man of ink and moans tried to kill himself again.
I cry, unexpected and uninvited.
Desperation and emptiness hollow out my tummy until there is nothing there to feel.
My mind rewinds eight years to a dark and dismal day on a Scottish riverside. “Dan?” I call, moving his face, trying to get him to wake up. “Dan. Don’t you bloody dare. Don’t you bloody dare.”
Five
Dan
My head. Why is the pain so bad? It can only mean one thing; I’m not dead. Death wouldn’t hurt this much.
I don’t want to move, not ever. I never want to open my eyes and face the reality of the situation. A) I’m still here and b) my head hurts like a marching band at the end of a St Patrick's day parade.
Fuck.
Voices murmur in the background. Well, that’s just even bloody better; there’s an audience for my pain.
“Oh, Danny boy, you'd better open your eyes right about now.”
I groan—at least I try to. Abi.
Opening my eyes, I peer through what seems to be thick smoke. Abi doesn’t smoke. I blink a few times, but everything remains blurred and my eyelids can’t unstick themselves for long. A tang of metal tingles the end of my tongue.
For one brief but endless moment I wait for my dad to speak, like the time I had my tonsils out and I could hear him before I could see him.
“He’s coming around,” says another voice, this one crisper, sharper, the vowels more pronounced.
It’s not Dad.
He’s dead. The fact he’s dead rings in my head—a bell I wish would stop ringing.
Gone somewhere apparently I can’t follow. As I work on opening my eyes, I try to place the voice.
Maybe I am dead and this is hell? It hurts enough to be hell.
Somehow, I open my eyes enough so that bright light harpoons my eyeballs. I expect the zap of luminance to be followed by the cloying stench of a sterile hospital bay but it doesn’t come.
Instead, I find four faces peering at me. No wait, two. Oh, maybe four. My head thuds the more I try to count.
“Bloody hell, Dan.” Even through my blurred vision, I can see that Abi does not look like she’s willing to adopt the role of Florence Nightingale again so soon. “What shit is this? Do you have a death wish?”
“Lay off, Abi.” My jaw isn’t working properly, my words slur like I’ve seen the bottom of a bottle of rum.
“Lay off? Are you fricking kidding me? A week ago, you nearly killed yourself. Now this? Forgive me for being alarmed and oh so very much not amused.”
I try to wave her and her nagging away. “It was just a fight.”
“Where, Dan? Where was this fight? On a street corner? In an alley? Should I be calling the police?”
I try to shrug, but it’s just impossible. My body feels like a metal suspension bridge brought down by a hurricane and smashed to pieces.
“Just a fight.” I shut my eyes again. My words bring on a battering ram of memories which assault my incoherent thoughts: spitting blood, endless pain, and a wonderful pulse of euphoria.
“I give up,” Abi snaps. I don’t say anything. If she gave up on me, it would be better. I wouldn’t have to keep going to her house to apologise for being an arsehole. I wouldn’t be hanging around, a useless waste of space example for her children to watch as they grow up.
Maybe it would be better for us all if everyone gave up on me.
“Fine.” I mutter.
There’s a broad stretch of silence. “You know, one day, hopefully soon, you will pull your head out of your arse. When you do, don’t come knocking on my door.” There’s an
other weighted pause followed by a small but unmistakable sniff.
I’m an arsehole.
It would be so much better if she left me to it.
The familiar catch of the front door echoes in between my ears like a shot gun. Now all I need is to lay still and just wait for the incessant pain to stop.
Not even bothering to move or to get up to investigate my injuries, I submit myself to the exhaustion rolling over me. The fight was too soon, I know that. In which case next Friday’s might do the trick.
There’s something to look forward to. A silver lining and all that.
“You know, underground fighting is illegal.”
What the fuck?! If my broken body didn’t have me pinned to the bed, I’d be jumping out of my skin. My eyes blink open, focusing on the shadowy form moving in front of me.
Shit. The doorbell rang; it was her. My last shattered memory was the swirling scent of perfume, the same perfume my sheets have been holding for days, drifting up my nostrils. Right about as I passed out.
“What you going to do about it?” My words slip together again like a drunken sailor. I can’t seem to separate them.
“Find it and shut it down.”
“Who are you, the police?”
She moves closer, her shadowy outline moving closer. “You know it’s not just about dying. What if you ended up a vegetable on a life support for the rest of your days and your poor friends had to come and visit you, sitting and holding your hand while you dribbled into a tube?”
“Hmph.”
“Or what if you were still walking around, but could no longer see, or smell, or taste?” Her outline moves again and as if she’s making her point, the delicate waft of her perfume brushes over my face. “I’m thinking you can’t see me now.”
“Sure, I can.”
“Liar.”
I have nothing to say. Why is she here anyway? She’s just annoying and making my head hurt worse.
“Go away…” I can’t remember her name.
“Sienna.”
“I know who you are, darling.” My lips seem to be moving a bit better, or maybe I’m just imagining it.
“Well, shame for you I’m stuck here. It’s almost half three in the morning. I won’t find a hotel—not the type I want to stay in anyway—and I didn’t get to do the work I wanted to do.”
