Charlotte

by Keane, Stuart

  Amy was ready for it, and sidestepped.

  Ted missed Amy, tripped, and fell forward. His overweight frame slapped the tiled floor with a resounding splat. The slap of fat, sweaty flesh on shiny tiles filled the air. Ted slid for an inch or two with a squeak before coming to a rest. Amy smiled.

  Behind her, Lennie and Sanjay stifled a laugh. She turned to them, glared, and turned back to Ted. A second later, Lennie and Sanjay left, walking out of the canteen. A small congregation of nosy children—both boys and girls—replaced them. A few slipped their mobile phones from their pockets.

  Ted rolled over, stranded, like a turtle lying on its shell. He managed to balance himself on the self-serve shelf and struggled to his feet, panting and perspiring. Two girls walked past him, chatting and giggling, and shot him a disparaging look as they joined the small queue behind him. Ted looked down and noticed his shirt had ridden up his chest, exposing his fat belly. The first scar-like signs of stretch marks decorated his sides. He quickly hustled the material down, covering his modesty. His embarrassed eyes filled with rage.

  “You’ll pay for this, Brunswick.”

  He stormed forward, eyes on Amy. As he neared, Amy shot her foot out and kicked him in the balls. The solid thud of leather shoe on squashed genitals was sudden, forceful, and loud. An uncomfortable thunk filled the air. A chorus of ‘Ohhhh’ erupted throughout the canteen as a couple of onlookers witnessed it. Two held out expensive mobile phones and started recording.

  “Someone kicked Lead Ted in the nuts!”

  “Amy Brunswick, you leg-end!”

  “Woot! I didn’t know he had balls!”

  Ted whimpered, his pre-pubescent voice emitting a girlish squeal of anguish as he fell to his knees and started to cry. A low, whining mewl escaped his lips as he bowed forward. As he did, Amy reached in and placed a palm on his shoulder, stopping him mid keel. “If you ever, ever, touch me again, you fat piece of shit, I will cut your fucking tongue out, do you hear me?”

  Ted’s eyes widened and he squealed again, petrified.

  “Do you hear me?”

  Ted nodded slowly, confused. Amy released him and he fell to the ground in a blubbering pile. She tossed a fifty pence piece at him. “Get yourself an oatmeal bar or something healthy, looks like you need it. Fat fuck.”

  Amy smiled, stepped over him, and joined the queue, collecting her tray as before. Eyes watched her as she went. A mixture of awe, pride and amazement flashed between the students. No one came near her, respecting her space. Amy smiled again and looked at the elderly dinner lady behind the counter, who eyed her nervously.

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Can I get some chips, a sausage roll, and a green Panda Pop please?”

  Amy closed the door and dropped her bag on the floor. She walked to the stairs and took them two at a time. After a moment, she entered her bedroom and closed it behind her. Then, all was silent.

  Bruce awoke on his couch, aware of some commotion in the household. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he sat up and lit a cigarette, toked a lungful of it and held it in. A huge plume of smoke escaped his lungs and lips and he sighed in pleasure.

  “Fantastic. Just what I needed.”

  He stood up, arched his back with a crack, and walked into the empty kitchen. Peering at the clock on the wall, he noticed the time. Pat wouldn’t be home yet, Amy was probably on her way. He opened the fridge and removed a carton of orange juice. Popping the lid, he swallowed a huge mouthful. He put the carton back and sighed.

  His bare feet padded the tiles and moved to carpet as he walked into the hallway, beside the stairs. Glancing up and down the hallway, making sure the coast was clear, he opened the liquor cabinet and removed a half empty bottle of Jim Beam. He unscrewed the cap and took a long swig. He hissed, feeling the amber liquid burn its way to his stomach. He coughed and smiled. “Shit, that never gets old.” He took a second swig, screwed the lid back on, returned the bottle, and walked back to the kitchen.

  A creak on the stairs froze him in his tracks.

  Bruce didn’t move. He listened, straining his ears in the infinite silence. “Who’s there?”

  No answer.

  Did Amy come home yet?

  Bruce turned and walked into the hallway, passed the liquor cabinet and reached the foot of the stairs. He glanced upwards into the darkness of the upstairs landing. The low sound of music, from one of Amy’s shows—the title escaped him—was playing from her room. He spun around and spotted her shoes and bag and smiled, relieved. The creak could have come from upstairs.

  Bruce, a smile back on his face, walked into the dining room and cut back to the kitchen. He whistled as he went.

  Upstairs, Amy’s bedroom door opened. Amy looked up. “Where have you been, Charlotte?”

  The bedroom door then closed.

  SEVEN

  Bruce closed the front door behind him with a silent clunk. He placed the box beside his feet gently and straightened up. He remembered the creaking stairs from the day before and had to make sure. After a moment of silence, he took a wary step forward. “Hello?”

  No answer.

  No one was home.

  He looked slowly from side to side. The spacious hallway before him stretched to the end of the house, a carpeted stairway halfway down aimed upwards, and a small, cosy passageway beside it took you to the kitchen. To his left was a bright living room, his right the dining room turned office, which ran the length of the house and combined with the kitchen. The dining room was the largest room in the house, and it was where the family spent most of their time. Just beyond the dining room table was a small seating area with a TV, two small sofas, and a games console. Bruce spent a lot of his home time there.

  The thought of the leather on his aching muscles was heavenly.

  In due course, he thought.

  For confirmation, he spoke once more.

  “Hello?”

  Again, no answer.

  Bruce smiled, unwrapped his scarf from his neck, placed it on the hook beside him, and walked into the living room. The Christmas tree sat in the corner, its scent was wonderful. He dropped to his knees and flicked the switch on the wall. Red and blue lights lit up the tree as he adjusted one or two baubles. Bruce smiled, the festive mood really taking him. Backing up, he emerged in the hallway again.

  He listened. No sound emitted from the house. No creaking floorboards like yesterday. The silence of isolation was evident in the air.

  He was definitely home alone.

  Excellent.

  Returning to the hallway, he gripped the box, lifted it, and took it to the dining room table. He placed the box on the surface and opened the lid. He glanced down at the contents.

  Bruce smiled.

  An hour later, the front door opened. The sound of heavy rain filled the quiet house. As the door closed, it gradually ceased before a muted thump welcomed silence once more.

  “C’mon, Amy, quick. Jesus, it’s coming down out there.”

  Patricia ushered Amy into the house, urging her out of the cramped, cold porch. Bruce, sitting in his leather armchair with a newspaper in his lap, glanced through the window. The familiar, but comforting, sound of the rain pattered against the pane. It brought a smile to his lips. After a moment, he dropped the paper on the floor and stood up. “Hey, guys.”

  “Hey, honey.” Patricia smiled beneath the removal of her sodden clothing whilst shuffling to the dining room. Her arms folded, clutching sleeves, buttons, and bag straps. She shifted to the side, shook her arms, and dropped her soggy garments. Her damp coat and scarf slapped the back of the nearest dining room chair. Her umbrella, glistening with raindrops, clattered to the laminate flooring, spilling droplets of water on its surface. She lowered her arms and sighed loudly.

  Turning around, she helped Amy remove her coat. The girl kicked off her wellington boots, both of which slid along the floor and hit the wall. Patricia groaned. “Bloody weather.”

  “Raining out?” Bruce perched on the edg
e of the armchair.

  “What do you think?” Patricia said, sarcastically.

  “It’s due to snow anytime. I hope we get some this year, a white Christmas is rare.”

  “It would be beautiful,” Patricia said, wiping her face on a towel.

  Amy jumped into the hallway. “Mummy, can I go play with Charlotte?” Patricia hesitated, shivering at the mention of the name. “Sure…”

  Bruce climbed to his feet. “Amy, darling…I have a present for you. You can play with Charlotte in a minute, okay?”

  Amy bit her lip, pouting. “Okaaay.” Her tone was slightly dejected, disappointed at not being able to play with her friend, but curious about an unknown present. She ambled into the living room and slumped on the end of the sofa. She flopped her hands into her lap, legs swinging back and forth, thudding against her seat.

  Patricia walked into the living room, brushing her unkempt, wet hair from her face. Her cheeks were rosy with chilled air and rain. A relieved smile spread across her face as her eyes settled on her husband. “Hey.”

  Bruce smiled and nodded. He turned to Amy. “Now, Amy. How was school?”

  “Alright. Same as always.” Amy didn’t make eye contact; instead, she gazed around the room. Bruce shot a curious glance at his wife, who sat back on the sofa. The look she returned said—over to you; see if you can get a response out of her. Her eyes warily watched her daughter.

  Bruce smirked, winking at his wife. “Did you have fun?”

  “School isn’t fun, Dad. It’s like prison for kids.” Her eyes locked onto her father’s. He sat back. They were emotionless, empty and stoic. A shiver crawled up his spine. He forced a smile. Amy responded with one of her own, which gave her a coy, but menacing look. “Can I go play yet?”

  Bruce shuffled in his seat and stood up. “Not yet, darling. Soon.”

  Amy sat back and sighed. “Why?”

  Bruce, his back turned to his family, closed his eyes and grimaced. Fucking Charlotte has a lot to answer for, he thought. He breathed out, smiled and turned to his daughter. “I have a present for you.”

  “It’s not my birthday and it’s not Christmas until next week…so what is it?”

  Silence filled the room. Bruce crouched down and moved a brown box into view. He flipped the lid and pushed his hands into the box gently. Patricia—knowing what it was—smiled and watched her daughter for a reaction. Amy was confused, bemused even, by her father’s methodical pace. “Hurry up, Dad…”

  Bruce Brunswick stood up holding a golden Labrador puppy. Its innocent, imploring eyes instantly melted Patricia’s heart as it glanced around, taking in its new home. A slippery pink tongue was bobbing from its mouth. Its soft, golden ears flopped over Bruce’s hands as he lowered and placed the puppy on the ground. The puppy remained inert, looking at the ground. It pushed a wet nose to the floor and started sniffing.

  Amy dropped to the ground beside it. “For me?”

  Bruce nodded. “Yes. A puppy, just how you always wanted.”

  “It’s like the ones from the toilet paper advert.”

  “From the Andrex adverts, yes. A golden Lab.” Bruce folded his arms and smiled, a smug smile, one of pure satisfaction. He gazed over at Patricia, who was smiling. She was leaning back on the sofa, running her fingers through her wet, knotty hair. I love you, she mouthed, smiling. She continued watching her daughter.

  “Does it have a name?” Amy scooted closer, watching the pet. The dog looked up and moved in closer, sniffing the small girl. Its youthful claws skittered on the laminate flooring.

  “Nope. You can name it whatever you want.”

  “Sandy. I want to call it Sandy. Like the beach colour.”

  “That’s good, honey.”

  Both parents watched Amy play with the puppy, in slight awe. For the first time in weeks, Amy was playing with something other than Charlotte and their emotions. They glanced at one another and smiled. Bruce patted Amy on the head. “Right, I need to get dinner ready. You and your mum play with Sandy, get her acquainted with the house. Okay?”

  Amy scrambled to her feet and sprinted over to her father. She slammed into his waist and tried to wrap her tiny arms around him. He placed a hand on her back, accepting the hug. “Thank you so much, Daddy. It’s perfect.” She squeezed and turned back to Sandy, who was yapping and chasing her across the floor. Amy dropped to her knees and stroked the dog.

  Bruce walked out of the room, heading towards the kitchen. Charlotte can kiss my fucking arse after this, he thought. He passed the stairs and entered the kitchen, flicking the light switch as he went.

  He was unaware of the shadowy figure at the top of the stairs.

  EIGHT

  Dr. Barden was sitting in silence, legs crossed, notepad bobbing on his knee as his rooted foot bounced on the plush carpet. His pen—slipped between his fingers—was waving back and forth by his ear, whilst he observed Amy on his leather couch.

  He stopped moving his fingers and slid the pen into the binds of the pad.

  Amy, her head lowered towards the ground, wasn’t moving. Her hands sat beside her, palms down on the cool leather. On closer inspection, her head was stirring from side to side, minimally, Dr. Barden hardly noticed it. Her legs were inert, not touching the floor below.

  After one more minute, Dr. Barden coughed. Amy looked up.

  For a fleeting second, he saw a vehemence in those bright, innocent eyes. As if interrupting her was a major inconvenience. He shook his head and grinned.

  “Amy, I’m Dr. Barden. You can call me Sam.”

  “Hello.” Amy half-smiled. Her eyes wandered, looking at the furniture in the room. “Your office is really tidy. Neat. I tidied my room recently. I do prefer it to be tidy, don’t you?”

  Dr. Barden nodded. He scribbled a note on his pad.

  “Do you always tidy your room?”

  “Not always. Mum normally does it for me. I just…well, I like my toys and my stuff. Its better when I know where everything is.”

  “I agree. A tidy mind is an organised one.”

  Amy looked up and frowned.

  Dr. Barden held her stare for a second. He smiled back, warming to the girl. “How many toys do you have?”

  Amy poked her tongue out, thinking of the answer. Her hands clasped together, fingers tapping against one another. Dr. Barden narrowed his eyes. Amy returned her gaze to the doctor. “I don’t know, too many. Lots. I don’t count my toys, that’s stupid.”

  “That’s okay. I wouldn’t count my books, it would take me forever.”

  Amy looked at the huge mahogany bookcase to the left of the couch. The shelves climbed to the ceiling. All kinds of books—varied in colour and size—adorned the shelves. Amy craned her neck to look up at the top shelf. “Wow.”

  Dr. Barden smiled. “Now, Amy. Do you know why you’re here?”

  Amy pulled her eyes away from the bookcase. “No.”

  “Your parents didn’t tell you?”

  “No.”

  Great play, folks, he thought. He kept the smile on his face and folded his arms. “Tell me about school…”

  “You as well?”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s all everyone asks me these days. How’s school? Lessons going okay? Adults are dumb. As I said to Dad the other day, it’s like a prison for kids. I hate it. Put that on your bloody pad, okay? I’m sick of saying it.”

  Dr. Barden hesitated. Amy was staring at him; the blue brightness in her eyes had dulled slightly. He scribbled on the pad and put his pen down. “Your parents asked you this already?”

  “Yes. It’s annoying.” Amy folded her arms and breathed out.

  “What else have they asked you?” Dr. Barden felt a warm dread rising in the pit of his stomach. He swallowed. Please tell me they haven’t…

  “They keep asking if I want to do stuff. Like, the last week, Mum took me to the cinema. She never does that, Dad does. They keep trying to get me out of the house. I don’t know why, but all I want to do is stay in and
play with my friends.”

  Dr. Barden scribbled a few notes. “Friends. You mean Mike, right?”

  A fractional wave of anger passed over Amy’s face. Dr. Barden sensed a tremor of fear seize him. Beneath his pink shirt, his hairs bristled on his forearms. Amy glanced at him, her eyes darkened, as if the sky blue in them had clouded over. “How do you know about Mike?”

  “Your Mum told me about him. Your neighbour and friend, right?”

  “He’s a cunt.”

  Dr. Barden dropped his pen onto the carpet. His breath shot out of him, making him gasp. He quickly covered his mouth, but it was too late. Amy smiled. “What? Don’t you like that word?”

  “Where did you learn such language?”

  “From my parents.”

  “How? Did you hear…”

  “…them fucking, yeah. Dad calls Mum it sometimes.”

  Dr. Barden stroked his brow, looking away from the girl. He’d seen a lot in his time as a psychologist but a nine-year old girl dropping the C bomb so calmly was not one of them. He felt a cold sweat breaking out on his skin.

  Something wasn’t quite right here.

  He stood up and walked to the mini fridge behind his desk. He took out a bottle of water, paused, and then removed a juice box too. Smiling, he took the drinks back to Amy and sat back down, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. “Like orange juice?”

  Amy nodded, smiling.

  He handed the drink to the girl. She put it on the table before her, untouched. Dr. Barden lowered into his chair, took a huge gulp from the bottle and sighed. Composed, he looked at the girl again. “Why did you call Mike a…what’s wrong with Mike? Your mother told me he’s a family friend.”

  “He grew up. He goes to a private school with a bunch of teenage snobs who think their shit don’t stink. Then, he came home and picked on me for being normal. I told him to go away. We haven’t spoken since.”

  Dr. Barden scribbled, ignoring the word shit. After all, she said cunt. It can’t get much worse, he thought.

  “Where did Mike go after you spoke?”

  “To the football field.”