It seemed to Max, however, that his mother always seemed to scrounge up enough money to buy a pint of whiskey or a pack of cigarettes, or a box of the dye she used to keep her naturally dark hair tinted a brassy blonde shade. But the few times he’d scathingly pointed such things out to her, she’d screamed obscenities at him, calling him an ungrateful little bastard, and whining that he had no idea how hard she worked just to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. From what Max had observed over the years, though, it was rather more a case of his unambitious, undependable mother hardly working as opposed to working hard. She had as much difficulty holding onto a steady job as she did a steady man in her life, and he couldn’t recall the last time she’d held on to either for more than six or eight months at a time.
And the various jobs that Patsy Wainwright had held over the last dozen years hadn’t exactly been anything to brag about, thought Max derisively as he deftly avoided several more puddles on the route he was taking home from school today. His mother typically worked as a house or office cleaner, a barmaid, or a cashier. She’d quit school at the age of fifteen, without any sort of certification, and had never exhibited even the slightest desire to continue her education or improve herself in any way. All Patsy seemed to care about was attracting men, going out to bars and parties with her friends, and trying to forget the fact that she had a thirteen year old son who depended on her.
Though Max had learned early on that his flighty, irresponsible mother couldn’t be depended on for much of anything. Over the years he’d been obliged to get his own meals, do his own laundry, get himself to and from school each day. Patsy had never nagged him even once to do his homework, and didn’t seem to care much if he attended school or not. But Max was bound and determined to rise above this sad excuse of an existence, to escape this dreary, dreadful factory town, and make a better life for himself. And since those plans were dependent upon him attending university and securing a scholarship to pay his way, he knew just how important it would be for him to excel at school. That meant being in attendance every single day, no matter if he didn’t feel well or if it meant walking to and from school in the snow or rain.
Fortunately, Max had rather miraculously inherited a high I.Q. from some unknown relation - God knew it hadn’t been from either of his parents - and was doing exceptionally well with his studies. He was at the top of his class in every subject, and one of his teachers had recently suggested that Max should perhaps be transferred to a higher performing school than the rather lowly rated one in town. Such a transfer would involve him having to take two different buses to the next town over, but Max thought the extra effort would be well worth it if it meant he could receive a better education. It would also, he thought grimly, be a welcome escape from the depressing surroundings he currently resided in, not to mention the rough group of boys he was constantly finding ways to avoid.
It had always been difficult for him to make friends, mostly because he had always felt so different from the other boys his age. The majority of them seemed to have no ambitions, no desire to better themselves, or to one day leave this downtrodden town. Unlike Max, none of them seemed to give a damn about studying or getting good grades or attending university in a few years. Undoubtedly most of them would stay here in town, go to work in the factory just like their fathers and grandfathers had before them, and continue the cycle of barely eking out a living and never wanting something better.
And now that he and his classmates had entered their teens, most of the other boys seemed intent on causing and getting into as much trouble as possible, whether it was shoplifting, spray painting graffiti on a neighbor’s fence, or harassing younger boys. Admittedly, Max had succumbed to the peer pressure to create mayhem and mischief on a number of occasions over the years, but it had rarely gone further than stealing a few candy bars, unraveling several rolls of toilet paper in someone’s front yard, or taunting a smaller, scrawnier group of boys with insults and jibes.
Over the past year or so, however, he’d been reluctant to join in any sort of hijinks, harmless or otherwise, for fear that getting caught might ruin his chances of being transferred to a better school and eventually gaining admission to university. He’d become quite adept at avoiding the group of boys who lived in his neighborhood, the same ones who had always tried to cajole him into joining their mischief making forays. Max often stayed late at school after classes were over with, preferring the peace and quiet of the library to do his homework rather than the drafty little apartment he lived in with his mother. The walls of the apartment were paper thin, and the sounds and smells from the adjoining units could be overwhelming at times, and not a particularly conducive environment in which to study.
Spending the extra hours at school also afforded him the opportunity to work one on one with his teachers, most of whom were eager to help such a promising student as Max. The teachers at his school definitely had their work cut out for them, realized Max, since the vast majority of their students were lazy, uninspired, and had little desire to actually learn. The teachers probably spent more time breaking up fights, disciplining students, and trying to keep some semblance of order in the classroom than they did actually teaching.
And since none of his classmates were eager to spend even one more minute at school than was absolutely necessary, Max rarely if ever ran into any of them on his walk home. Not, of course, that he was overly concerned even if he did encounter them. He was a few inches taller, at least a dozen pounds heavier, and far stronger than any of the boys in his class. One of his mother’s former boyfriends had been an amateur boxer at some point in his life, and it had amused the man to teach young Max some moves. Beyond learning the finer points of a right hook or a left jab, the man had also shown Max a number of what he simply called dirty street fighting techniques, including using the small stiletto knife he’d instructed Max to keep hidden in his pocket.
After a few scuffles where Max had easily come out the winner, he’d earned himself a reputation as someone you simply didn’t want to mess with. But Max knew that things would only get tougher the older he and the other boys got, that the relatively harmless pranks and shoplifting would turn into far more serious offenses like selling drugs, robbing houses, and gang violence. His own father, after all, had followed that same sort of dark, twisted path, and Max was determined his own future would be very, very different. He resolved to bring the subject of transferring schools up to Mr. Harkness, the mathematics teacher who had initially suggested the idea to Max, and stress the urgency of doing so as soon as possible.
But that conversation would have to wait until at least tomorrow, thought Max glumly as he continued to make his way home. A fierce snowstorm was forecast for mid-afternoon, and school had been dismissed at noon today to allow students and teachers to get home safely. Already an icy sleet was beginning to fall, and he quickened his strides a bit in order to avoid getting too wet. He knew from experience that it would take long hours for his coat and shoes - the only ones he owned - to dry out, especially given how damp the apartment he lived in was.
The route he was taking home today - a dirt road that paralleled the railroad tracks - was at least a kilometer longer than if he had taken the main road through town. But going this way meant he could avoid any of his classmates who might be loitering around, and while Max was confident of holding his own with any of them, he preferred whenever possible to evade any sort of trouble or confrontation. Besides, he told himself sourly, except for keeping dry there really wasn’t much to look forward to by arriving home a few minutes early.
His mother would be there, of course, since her current job as a barmaid required her to work in the evenings. She’d likely be sprawled out on the sagging, well worn sofa, watching some soap opera or other equally awful program on the television, smoking a cigarette and possibly already nursing a glass of cheap whiskey, despite the fact that it was just gone noon. With her dyed hair, skin that was sallow and lined from too ma
ny cigarettes and drugs, and her generally unkempt appearance, Patsy Wainwright looked far older than her thirty-two years. She’d done a considerable amount of hard living during that time, and Max doubted his mother would live to see her fiftieth year unless she started taking better care of herself. He wouldn’t, he thought savagely, be around to see it happen, though. Once he left this horrible, grimy excuse of a town he would never be back. And given the neglect he’d endured from his mother over the past thirteen years, he didn’t feel even the slightest twinge of guilt at leaving Patsy on her own when he moved on.
The sleet quickly turned into flurries, causing Max to quicken his pace and turn up the collar of his coat. The roundabout route he’d chosen to take home took him past the very worst parts of town, with fences and the sides of buildings covered in graffiti, broken windows replaced with boards, rusted out vehicles abandoned along the side of the roads, and piles of trash, old mattresses, and debris littering yards, sidewalks, and gutters. He hated and despised this place more than he could properly express, and vowed anew that wherever he wound up living once he turned eighteen it would be a damned sight better than this blight.
He reached his apartment building just as the snow began to fall in earnest, and slowly, reluctantly climbed the stairs to the third story of the ramshackle structure. The stairs were badly in need of repair in several locations, with the concrete chipped off in chunks, and the railings rusted and wobbly, but Max knew the likelihood of any renovations happening was slim to none. The building manager was a surly, unresponsive sort with a serious drinking problem, and getting him to fix anything around this dump was nearly impossible. It was why most of the units had leaky plumbing, moldy ceilings, and heating that worked only sporadically during the coldest months.
The smell of fish and onions being fried for someone’s lunch was overpoweringly nauseating, and Max was forced to hold his breath as he continued to trudge up the stairs. Someone was playing their television at such a loud volume that it could be clearly heard even through closed doors and windows. From another apartment the sound of heavy metal music was blaring.
But it was from the apartment that he shared with his mother that the most disturbing sounds were emanating from. He instantly recognized the voice of the woman who was alternately screaming and cursing as Patsy’s, though it took him a few seconds to identify the male voice as that of his mother’s current boyfriend. As with most of his mother’s male friends, Max had taken an instant dislike to this new one - a rather scrawny, pockmarked, foul-mouthed lout named Robby.
Like the majority of her so-called beaus, Patsy had met Robby at one of the pubs she liked to frequent with her girlfriends. And, like nearly every man she’d dated, Robby should have had the word Loser tattooed across his forehead, though such an identifying mark would have hardly been necessary. It was obvious at first glance that the shabbily dressed, poorly groomed Robby wasn’t much of a catch, and when one got close enough to catch a whiff of his rank body odor and sour beer breath, it was a wonder that any woman in her right mind would want him in her life.
But, as with so many things, Patsy Wainwright had made it her life’s purpose, it seemed, to make one bad decision after another, and Robby was simply the most recent in that string of poor choices. A very poor decision, thought Max grimly as he fit his key into the lock and hurried inside, since it was obvious from the sounds coming from inside the apartment that his mother’s current boyfriend was beating the living daylights out of her.
Patsy already had a bloodied lip, a bruised cheekbone, and a rapidly swelling eye when Max burst inside the living room, though she seemed intent on defending herself as she continued to hit out at Robby with flailing arms and fists. As short and scrawny as Robby was, however, he was still stronger than Patsy and managed to land another hard smack across her face before kicking her in the stomach. She doubled over in pain, screaming loudly as she dropped to her knees and covered her head to protect herself from another blow.
Despite his often contentious relationship with his mother, there was no possible way Max was just going to stand by and allow anyone to beat her, so he instinctively grabbed the first object he spied that could be employed as a weapon of sorts. The cricket bat was old and well worn, a relic that he’d found at the charity shop for a couple of pounds. But as he hefted the wooden bat in his hands now, Max thought savagely that it would more than do the trick.
“Leave her alone, you fucker,” snarled Max as Robby prepared to land another kick, this time against Patsy’s ribcage.
Robby looked up in surprise at the sound of Max’s enraged voice, just in time to get smacked hard in the face with the broad end of the cricket bat. Max took advantage of having caught the other man off guard by whacking him half a dozen more times, striking him with the wooden bat in the ribs, abdomen, and back before landing another hard blow against the head. Even though Max was yet a boy of thirteen, he was both taller and broader than the skinny Robby, and far stronger, and the older man couldn’t even begin to fight back.
Max had gone out of his way to avoid getting into physical altercations with his schoolmates, except to protect himself, and ordinarily shunned violence of any kind. But as he continued to batter his mother’s attacker with the cricket bat, he felt an unwilling sense of satisfaction with each blow he landed. As he heard the bones of Robby’s thin nose crunch, and saw the blood streaming from his mouth, Max rejoiced rather savagely. And when another of his strikes with the bat cracked a couple of the man’s ribs, he experienced an almost violent rush of pleasure when Robby groaned in pain.
“Stop it, stop it!” screamed Patsy, who had hauled herself to her feet and was grabbing frantically at her son’s arm. “Stop it right now, you little monster! Leave him alone!”
Max stared down at his mother in disbelief, aghast that she would actually be defending the stinking piece of shit who’d been intent on beating her to a pulp. But then he glimpsed the glassiness of her eyes, the visible beat of her pulse against her carotid artery, and he knew immediately that she was higher than a kite. He knew that if he checked her arm he’d find track marks, and guessed that good old Robby was not just her current boyfriend but her dealer as well. The drugs, most likely heroin, were making her act irrationally, pounding her fists now against Max’s chest and back in an attempt to stop him from inflicting further harm to Robby.
He was both hurt and infuriated that she would take that bastard’s side against her own son, would stick up for the man who’d been wailing on her, and try to pull her defender off of the worthless sod. He deflected her mostly harmless blows effortlessly, holding her away from him with one hand while still clutching the cricket bat with the other, not convinced that Robby wouldn’t try attacking one or both of them despite his rather battered state. But Patsy was quickly working herself into a frenzy, yelling and cursing and doing her damndest to pry the bat out of her son’s hand and put herself between him and Robby.
She yanked once again at Max’s arm, hard enough this time to throw him off balance, and causing him to bump into Robby. Robby, already unsteady from the series of blows he’d suffered, tripped over his own feet and fell to the floor, striking his head against the sharp edge of the iron stove as he did so.
Max stared in horror at the blood that instantly began to pour from the gaping wound on Robby’s head, and his mother’s shrieks grew downright hysterical as the injured man remained immobile. Her screams were so loud, in fact, that he barely heard the thud of footsteps on the outside staircase, or the male voice that called out sharply from the open doorway, “Police! Drop your weapon!”
Max set the cricket bat down automatically, his heart pounding in reaction. As he continued to stare numbly at the lifeless form of Robby, Patsy began to sob and wail, pointing a finger at him accusingly as two police officers entered the room.
“Murderer!” she screeched. “You killed him, Max. Officers, it was my son who did this. He killed poor Robby in cold blood!”
&
nbsp; Chapter Three
‘At least,’ thought Max glumly, ‘it’s warm in here. And they’ve brought me something to eat and drink.’
“Here” was a small, windowless room at the local police station, a room where Max had been instructed to sit and wait after he’d been brought in going on three hours now. Except for the uniformed officer who’d brought him a can of soda and a pre-packaged roast beef sandwich, no one else had come to check on him during that time. Though his stomach was rumbling in reaction to the violent scene back at the apartment, as well as from anxiety about what was going to happen to him next, he forced himself to eat the sandwich, not knowing when he might get the chance to eat again. Or where he would be spending the night. Or any night after this.
Max knew he was too young to be formally arrested or sent to an adult prison. He had a vague idea of where juvenile offenders were sent, but that was only from overhearing some of the other boys muttering about one of their mates having been sent to the “detention center” or the “juvvie lock-up”. But Max doubted that there was anything good about such places, and over the last couple of hours had begun to mentally prepare himself for the worst. After all, whether it had been an accident or self-defense, the facts were inescapable - he had been responsible for Robby’s death.
He shuddered to recall that awful scene in the cramped living room of the apartment he shared - corrected, had shared - with his mother. Robby had been motionless on the floor, bleeding profusely from the fatal head wound he’d suffered. Patsy had been screaming and crying and cursing, her arms flailing wildly as she’d tried unsuccessfully to land a blow anywhere on Max’s body, until one of the police officers had physically restrained her. The other officer had radioed for a medic before shooing away the gawking, nosy neighbors who’d been gathered in the open doorway. Max had guessed that one of them had called the police, having been alarmed by the screams and other noises coming from the apartment.
The One Real Regret Page 2
