by Esme Devlin
Shame I will never see it.
I roll my eyes… Aye, right then.
To my left and up a hill, I see the silhouette of the Canadian imported log cabin, the one where we’re supposed to spend our wedding night. The thought of spending more than a second alone in a room with Tommy Heenan makes me shudder.
When we were younger, after the sham ‘engagement party’ our parents held, Tommy would take every chance he could to tease me. For being too tall. For being too boyish. He had all of his friends calling me Michael for years, just because he thought it would annoy me. Hilarious.
Luckily though, he didn’t go to my primary school. Tommy went to the Catholic primary, and I went to the non-denomination one, so his attempts to intimidate were reserved solely for parties and gatherings.
Then we turned twelve, and in our town there is only one high school. I reckon at this point he hit puberty and realized there were more interesting things to do than bully me. Like… putting your cock inside other girls, for example. Whatever it was, he mostly ignored me during the early years of high school.
And then things kicked off when we were sixteen. That’s the legal marriage age in Scotland, with parental consent, and of course parental consent is the one thing we have in fucking abundance.
Tommy was determined I should leave school, marry him, and start learning my place as his wife. It’s all the rage in his community apparently, even though his family aren’t your typical Gypsies. They live in a house, for starters.
But whatever, I refused, and thankfully my dad backed me up for once in his life. We’d wait until we were both eighteen. I found this out via Tommy, when he pushed me up against a wall in the gym changing rooms and whispered in my ear: This is the one crumb of mercy you will ever get from me, darlin, so you enjoy it while it lasts.
And that’s why the silhouette of the log cabin makes me shudder. He hates me. He doesn’t know me, but he knows I’m not what he wants. I imagine he wants someone he can push around, someone who wants to shower him with attention and stay at home, cooking and cleaning and rocking the babies. Just the thought of it makes my stomach churn.
Outside the door groups of smokers huddle together under the patio heaters. Girls are wearing too-big suit jackets draped over their shoulders, stepping from side to side in their too-big heels, hoping the movement will keep them warm. It’s March, we had snow two weeks ago, and you’d think we’d learn to bring our own jackets on a night out. Nope. The alcohol will keep you warm once it kicks in.
Not that I can drink tonight, but it would look strange if I showed up wearing anything more than normal, and since I’m already a flight-risk, I don’t want to draw a single ounce of attention to myself. It’s cold but I’ll live.
I pass the group and smile when a few of them call out “there she is.”
The birthday girl. The one they’re all here to see. As if.
I don’t have many real friends, so the ones that are here are either because of my dad or because of Tommy.
I go through both sets of double doors and enter the main building. There are circular tables dotted around the room, white linen, with big pink bows wrapped around the chair covers and floral arrangements in the center. The dance floor in the middle is black, with tiny white LEDs scattered across it. The bar is packed with people laughing and joking. Girls who’ve never looked in my direction in school are dancing and giggling in groups. I scan the room, trying to find my actual friends, and see them sat at a table on the far side.
I’m making my way over to them when my dad grabs my arm and stops me in my tracks.
“There you are, we were scared you’d done a runner.”
The music is loud, and he’s having to shout to be heard.
I give him a lighthearted smile and point at my head, in case he can’t hear me. “My hair just wasn’t playing nice.”
“Well, looks nice enough to me,” he says with a shrug, bending down and giving me a kiss on the top of my head. He’s drunk, or at least he’s heading that way. I can smell the whiskey on his breath and feel the off-balance way he has a hold of my arm.
“I’m just going to find Lawrie and Ada,” I tell him, taking a step back and trying to slither out of his arms. “I’ll come and find your table in a bit.”
He nods slowly, like he’s still processing what I’ve just said. After a pause, he lets go of my arm. “Your ma’s over there at a table with your aunties.” He turns around and gestures in the direction opposite to where I’m headed. “I’m through the back, there’s poker on. Don’t let me miss the cake, all right?”
I nod and smile, turning around quickly so he doesn’t catch me rolling my eyes.
This is always how these parties go. The men slink off to a back room somewhere to play cards and gamble and discuss world fucking domination. Meanwhile, the gentler sex get to look pretty while they sip prosecco and dance to eighties music.
Happy Birthday to me, indeed.
Chapter 3
TOMMY
Three of clubs.
Six of clubs.
Flush potential. There’s two clubs face up in the pile and if another one comes out, then I’m laughing.
I look around the poker table, littered with half empty pint glasses and half full ashtrays. Smoking has been banned in Scotland for at least ten years, and through in the main hall, smoking is banned.
But this isn’t the main hall.
This is the back room, the underbelly. Dark. Dingy. A dive. This is a place that doesn’t follow conventional rules. My dad won’t book a party unless it has one of these places.
Jody rolls his fag butt between his finger and thumb, the head of it brushing around the edge of the glass, little flakes of ash dropping down onto the pile like snow. I watch him. I watch the rest of them, too.
All four of them are looking at their cards. Ryan. Jody. Stuart. Stubsy. We’ve been playing poker since my dad taught me one wintery Saturday afternoon, when the snow was so high we couldn’t even dig ourselves out the house.
That was at least five years ago.
Five years of playing cards and they still haven’t learned that you don’t look at the cards — you look at your opponent.
Fuck the cards.
Ryan puts down the twenty bet, Stuart calls it. Jody dicks about for a wee while, as usual, taking a long slow drag and finally raises to forty.
“Raise two-fifty,” I tell them, throwing a rolled up tube of notes to the middle of the table.
“You’re a prick, mate,” Ryan says, shaking his head.
It was a prick move. I’ll give him that. Other people wouldn’t play a hand like that, and I wouldn’t play a hand like that if I was playing with other people. That would be stupid, because they’d all fold like flies. But my pals know I’m a cocky bastard, and I’m probably bluffing, like I normally am.
We all turn to Stubsy, who’s dealing, and he calls it. Ryan folds, Stuart calls, and Jody folds.
Five turns into three.
Stubsy draws the final card, and it’s a fucking whore of hearts, which is about as useful to me as a kick in the teeth. Stuart checks, and my hand is useless. I deliberate for a good ten seconds. I can’t win with this hand, but fuck it. “Raise another hundred.”
Stubsy shakes his head, tossing the cards to the corner of the table. “Out.”
I look at Stuart and he’s eyeing me up. He’s the only one left, and since he’s tighter than a duck's arse, I’m planning on him walking away. But when he calls it, I know I’ve fucked up.
“Two-pair,” he says, smirking at me.
I start laughing at him. “I’ve got fuck-all, mate.”
Stubsy gives me a swift knock to the shoulder. “You always do that ya sly wee bastard.”
I push him off, laughing. “It usually fucking works, too.”
“Right boys, I’m done for the night,” Stuart announces, taking the cash from the middle of the table and pulling his chair out.
“You call Tommy a sly wee bastard,
that’s a sly bastard move if ever I saw one,” says Ryan.
“He’ll not even buy us a drink with our money either,” I tell them. “That’s going straight in his sock drawer, and he’ll be claiming poverty by the morning.”
“Listen mate, I won that money fair and square. I’m under no obligation to play again or to buy any of you cunts a drink with it. Wouldn’t buy you bastards a bottle of water if you were on fire,” he says, grinning like the cat who got the cream and heading over to the bar.
Stubsy rolls his head back laughing and shouts after him. “Why does Stuart Sergeant have such a big nose?”
“Cause the air costs nothing,” Jody says, sniggering while he blows out smoke.
We’ve been saying that same joke for the last ten years, every time Stuart pulls a wee stunt like this one. It started in primary school when he used to tell us he’d forgotten his playpiece, so we’d all pitch in and give him a 10p coin each to buy a biscuit or a banana. The little shit was stuffing his face with chocolate from home in the toilets and saving up the 10ps for a new BMX.
The worst part, or maybe it’s the best part, is that Stuart Sergeant probably has more money than the rest of us combined. Still wouldn’t stop him from peeling an orange in his pocket if he could get away with it.
“I’m done anyway,” I tell them, sliding my chair back and standing up. “My ma’ told me to make an effort or she’ll have my balls for earrings.”
They all know what I’m talking about — it’s the reason we’re sat here, dressed in suits and wasting an otherwise decent Saturday night.
“She’ll be too pissed by the end of the night to remember what she has or hasn’t threatened,” Ryan says.
“Och, leave him be,” Jody says, picking up his pint glass and finishing the dregs. “He’s only got a month til he has to stick one in her, his mum is probably worried she’ll poison him in his sleep.”
I laugh at him, even though a part of me is wondering if he might be right.
Michelle McLean. She’s a prickly little bitch who thinks she’s better than everyone, myself included. She’s pretty and she knows it, but she has a face like she’s just licked piss off a nettle, and that’s rubbed me up the wrong way since the first time I met her.
It’s her eighteenth birthday party, and almost exactly a month until she becomes my wife.
I head through to the main room, nodding at my dad as I pass him. He’s sitting at a table with Michelle’s dad, joined by a few of our uncles and business associates.
The music hits me like a slap in the face the second I open the door.
The difference between this room and the one I’ve just come from is night and day. The back room is quieter, darker, all cigar smoke and whiskey. This room is pink mood lighting and fucking floral arrangements. I scan the room, looking for Michelle, and spot her with her two friends over in the corner, about as far away from the party as they could be.
If I have to speak to her, I need a drink first.
“Jack Daniels and coke,” I nod at the barmaid who’s pushing her blonde hair back off her face in exasperation. It’s a busy bar, always is when my dad throws a party. She clocks my face and smiles as she nods, ducking under the bar and putting a red can down.
“Not seen you all night,” she says as she pours a shot into the glass.
“Been busy.” I flash her a smile. “Go’n make that a double.”
She does what I ask her without question and puts the glass down in front of me. I hand her a folded up tenner.
“No charge,” she says, winking at me.
“Take the fucking money,” I tell her, throwing the note down on the bar before pouring a dash of coke into the glass.
She puts her hands up in front of her in defeat and pretends to sigh, before picking up the money and stuffing it in her bra. I laugh, shaking my head and walking away.
I weave through the people on the dance floor, stopping every once in a while to say hello to some random who thinks I’m supposed to know them.
By the time I get to Michelle’s table, she’s not there, but I sit my arse down, anyway.
Her two friends look at each other as if I’ve just sprouted horns.
“Where’s Shelly?” I ask her pals, instantly annoyed but hiding it well.
The two of them couldn’t be more different if they tried. One is fairer, long mousy hair and slight. Pretty but plain, and if I remember correctly she’s the one with the attitude problem.
The other one is shorter, slightly rounder, with thick red curls and freckles on her body that are concealed on her face by a thick layer of makeup. She’s the prettier one, but neither are my type.
They both look at each other again, and neither of them look like they want to answer. I always forget their names. One is Lawrie, I think. The other one? Eva? Ava?
Ada. She’s the redhead.
I take a drink, putting it down on the table with probably too much force. “You pair forgotten how to talk?”
“She’s at the toilet,” Ada says, swallowing.
Something’s not right. I can sense it.
“Do you always look so guilty when telling someone that your friend’s gone for a slash?”
Lawrie clears her throat. “She’s in the toilet, Tommy. Leave her be.”
I was correct about the attitude. I laugh at them, throwing my head back before narrowing on their worried little faces. I’m trying to make an effort here. “I’m not fucking touching her. When did she go?”
Ada shrugs. “Ten minutes ago.”
Guilty.
She’s lying and I don’t know why.
Where is she?
“Ten minutes is an awfully long piss, do you not think? Maybe I should make sure she’s alright…” I tan the rest of my drink and put the empty glass down on the table.
“Tommy, we’ll go,” Lawrie says, grabbing Ada’s hand and pulling her up.
I gesture my hand towards the toilets, nodding. “Then go.”
Ada — clearly the smarter of the two — nods with her head down while Lawrie glares at me, and the pair of them leave the table and make their way across the dance floor towards the toilets.
I don’t believe for a second that she is actually in there.
I think she’s running.
Fucking bitch.
Chapter 4
MICHELLE
I slip out of the back entrance and the cold night air hits me.
It’s properly dark now, and since this side of the building isn’t lit up, I can barely see the bins in front of me until I’m practically falling over them.
They jolt, pushing against each other like dominos, the sound of hard plastic scraping along the roughcast wall loud over the muffled music from inside. My heart nearly stops while I try to steady them into silence.
I already feel sick with nerves and the smell back here is not helping with that.
I need to go, but my heels are loud on the paved mono-blocks and every step clips.
I hesitate for a second, wondering if I should take them off and go barefoot. I’d be quieter and faster, so it seems like a sensible idea.
I stop in the shadows, leaning a hand against the wall and resting my clutch purse on a bin before slipping my feet out of the heels.
The ground is like ice, so cold that it’s painful, and as I start walking, tiny bits of grit stick to my feet with every step I take.
Fuck. This hurts. I underestimated how cold the ground would be.
I pick up the pace, trying to give each foot a ‘break’ from the chill a little bit quicker.
I think I’m going the long way around the circular building, but this way there is less glass, which means less opportunity to be spotted by a guest inside, or one of the inevitable group of smokers at the front door.
I pause for a second before I reach the windows and move over closer to the railings. Lawrie left a pair of black leggings in the toilet, so that my bare legs wouldn’t stick out like a beacon to those inside the fishbowl. Sh
e’s smart like that, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. But now I’m glad she did.
From where I’m standing I can see inside, but they probably can’t see me. All these people I barely even know, laughing and having a great time. I’ll miss Lawrie and Ada, and maybe my mum too, to a certain extent. Well, scratch that — I’ll miss the thought of having a mum, anyway.
I’m glad I told the girls and got the chance to say a proper goodbye to them. I didn’t even speak to my mum, but I couldn’t risk her seeing through the act and finding out. She would have told my dad, and then my plan would be fucked.
I’m still watching the people inside, trying to steady my heart rate and pull myself together.
I pull the keys out of my clutch purse, thinking that if someone did see me and chase after me, at least I’ll have them ready.
I’m overthinking this.
The only two people who would notice or care I was gone, already know I’m leaving.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
A voice behind me.
A deep voice.
A voice like gravel.
The voice of Tommy Heenan.
I turn around slowly to face him. He’s in the shadows and I can barely make out his features.
I swallow and try to calm my racing heart before answering. “It’s too hot in there. I’m going for a walk.”
I hate the sound of my voice when I lie. I can white lie, that’s easy. I can act, too, when the situation calls for it.
But telling someone a complete untruth when there’s something to hide?
I hate that.
My voice sounds different.
My heart is beating in my ears.
“Do you always go for a walk with car keys in your hand?” His tone has changed from demanding a second ago, to being so casual that it’s almost lighthearted.
I pause while I try to think. I can continue on with my obvious lies, or I can run. If I run, he will catch me. But maybe I can lie as I walk.
So I turn back around and I walk in the direction of the car park.
He follows me, always staying three or four paces behind. I can hear his feet on the paving, his legs are longer so I’m having to take three steps for each of his two.
