Albatross

by Ross Turner

  “Thank you.” Deacon replied, tilting his head slightly in acknowledgement. “I’ve moved around so much that I’ve never really seen the point in settling anywhere…” He admitted then, delving into a cupboard in the kitchen, open plan with the rest of downstairs, and pulling a glass from a shelf. “But I do like it here…” He confessed.

  Pouring Jen a drink, he set the glass down for her on one of the worktops.

  “Thanks.” She said, smiling.

  “Make yourself at home.” He offered then, spreading his arms and glancing around. “I’m just going to change.”

  Jen nodded, and in moments she was alone in this marvellous house, and immediately her eyes tried to be everywhere at once, not knowing what to examine first.

  She settled, perhaps quite predictably, upon a plaque that decorated one of the whitewashed walls in the vast living room, sparsely populated with furniture, barely enough even to make it look liveable.

  Award for Artistic Excellence

  Presented to Mr Deacon Ash

  That took Jen aback somewhat.

  But then, as her eyes traced around the wall and fell upon a painting that she had at first thought was simply decoration, she grasped all of a sudden the seeming extent of Deacon’s talent.

  Indeed, the exquisite piece that she now set her eyes upon was for decoration, but as she looked at the signature in the bottom right hand corner, it was only then that she realised it was Deacon’s work.

  Jen’s breath caught in her throat, for two reasons.

  The first, because somehow, impossibly, the painting was of an albatross.

  The majestic bird soared over the ocean, looking down upon a person stranded on a desert island, surrounded by only a few sparse trees. The person had etched into the damp sand a message: a single word.

  But whilst you might have expected SOS, or HELP, this was not the case.

  Instead, the single word that this person had spelled out sent something of a chilling shiver racing up and down Jen’s spine.

  HOME

  And then the second reason, though by no means any less dramatic, was the brass plate that accompanied the piece.

  By Mr Deacon Ash

  Original sold for £250,000.00

  That was, just, insane.

  Jen continued to wander in astonishment.

  Besides those pictures and plaques she had already seen, there was nothing else hung on any of the walls downstairs.

  There were no family photos, no portraits, nothing.

  The furniture, though sparse, was modern and artistic in of its own right. Small leather settees floated in the large, open plan living room. Tables and chairs were placed deceptively here and there, as if one might at any time decide to stop and sit and draw.

  However, what Jen hadn’t initially noticed, upon those tables and worktops, were piles of drawings, sketches and doodles, some half-finished and some barely started, dotted all over the place.

  They were parts of people, animals, places, coastlines, horizons over vast wastelands, skylines over great endless cities, each and every one so realistic and lifelike that she half expected them to come to life right before her very eyes.

  She headed back over towards the kitchen, and again her gaze swept over the room, noticing things she had not seen before.

  Where at first she had seen clear table tops, though she didn’t know why, now she saw that there were pens and pencils strewn about here and there, scattered across the top of yet another half-finished drawing.

  This one was much bigger than the others, covering a full half of an A3 sheet of paper.

  Pushing the pencils over to one side, yet again, what Jen saw stole her breath away.

  It was the partly finished portrait of a girl. Catching it in one light, the picture looked so much like her that it may as well have been a photograph. But then, as she caught it in another light, the drawing was the spitting image of Clare; the resemblance was uncanny, and in fact quite spooky.

  “Do you like it?” Deacon’s voice suddenly sounded from the doorway, and Jen practically jumped out of her skin in fright.

  “OH! Oh my God Deacon!” She gasped, leaning forwards onto her knees, her heart thumping heavily.

  “I’m sorry!” He apologised immediately, rushing to her side, though he struggled to contain a laugh. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “It’s okay…” She wheezed, chuckling slightly. “You were just so quiet. You scared the life out of me!”

  “Are you okay?” He asked, his voice low and quite serious, as he placed one hand on Jen’s arm.

  “I’m fine.” Jen assured him. “Just don’t do that every time you come downstairs please!” She joked.

  “I only came down and walked in!” He responded, feigning shock.

  “Yeah! Like a bloody ninja!” Jen poked back at him.

  They both fell about laughing, and then Jen turned her attention again to the half-finished portrait.

  “So, who’s this supposed to be?” She asked him, wearing a smirk as she spoke.

  “Who does it look like?” He bartered.

  “It looks like me.” Jen replied quite simply.

  “It is you.”

  “Just me?”

  Jen’s question was a simple one, but Deacon paused for a moment. There seemed to be a much deeper meaning to what she was asking him.

  “If you want it to be…” He replied curiously, grinning cheekily as he spoke, making Jen blush slightly. “It can be just you, if you let it…”

  That particular comment didn’t really make too much sense to Jen, and so she just let it pass, and her eyes wandered to the all but vacant walls of Deacon’s home once more.

  “Deacon…” Jen started, stepping closer to him and resting her head upon his chest, leaning her body close to his as he wrapped his arms around her.

  “Yes, Jen?” He responded automatically, though somehow he already knew what her question would be.

  “You don’t see much of your family, do you?” She asked, and again he knew that wasn’t the only question she was posing.

  “No…I don’t…” He started in return.

  Jen felt a knot forming in her stomach.

  “Don’t you see them at all?” She pressed, admittedly a little shocked, reading between the lines.

  Deacon smiled ruefully.

  It seemed he wasn’t the only perceptive one here.

  The answer to her question was painfully obvious by Deacon’s silence, and Jen bit her lip cautiously.

  “It must be hard…” She continued then, her voice thick with emotion. “To know they’re out there, and never to see them?” Jen pressed on relentlessly. “What if one day you knew you’d never have the chance to see them again? Would you regret it?”

  Deacon pulled back, looking at Jen very directly. His hair was still wet from his shower and for some reason she felt the sudden urge to run her hands through it.

  “Family can mean a lot of different things…” He told her, his voice level and his tone sombre, as if he’d had this thought many times. “It doesn’t have to be blood. It can be whatever we make of it.” His words were quiet and full of emotion, thick with sadness, yet also resolve.

  Neither of them spoke then, and they simply held each other’s gaze a moment longer, and then a moment more.

  Deacon’s fingers found their way into Jen’s hair and he kissed her, his lips warm against hers, pulling her in closely and tightly, in the way that every young girl wishes.

  Her hands did indeed find their way into his hair too, and Deacon’s slid down Jen’s back, sending shivers running up and down her spine.

  His tongue found hers and Jen felt herself drawn into him like never before. It was a desperate, longing feeling that she couldn’t control, and it overtook her body like a wild animal, fuelling her with crazed desire and hunger.

  She found her hands exploring his body and her fingers traced gently up and down his chest, while his continued to send goose bumps racing over he
r exposed arms and shoulders. Jen shivered every time with sheer delight as it pulsed through her, making her short of breath, and only driving her to pull Deacon evermore fanatically closer.

  Then, before she even knew what she was doing, Jen felt her hands delving beneath his shirt and running up his stomach and chest, hungrily exploring everywhere they could reach. His body was smooth, coarse, soft, rough, all at once; well defined and perfectly crafted, it made Jen’s heart race and sent a hungry, forbidden fire racing through her veins.

  But, amidst her insatiable wanderings, Jen’s hands traced up and over Deacon’s chest once again, heaving beneath her aching palms, and her fingers found something that caused her roaming to cease.

  Something on his chest.

  Up towards his collarbone.

  On his ribs.

  They were flat and smooth, smoother than the rest of his skin, and had rough, harsh edges, at least a couple of inches across.

  In her moment of hesitation, Jen’s other hand paused too, further round the side of Deacon’s chest.

  Another one.

  The same shape.

  The same size.

  Jen pulled away slowly, though not once did she break Deacon’s grasp, nor his gaze. It was a look he gave her that made her wonder endlessly what she should do.

  Breathing heavily, looking up through concerned eyes, thick with emotion, her expression spoke a thousand and more words that she need not utter.

  His eyes looked deeply troubled as he gazed back down at her, though there was adoration there as well, all too clearly.

  Suddenly then, though she didn’t know exactly how, Jen understood, and when she spoke, her words came out in a whisper so soft that the sound of them sent shivers of her own cascading up and down Deacon’s spine.

  Now it was she who had him.

  “Show me…”

  The Grotto

  Deacon slowly rolled his top up from the bottom, and Jen pushed it up and over his head, her hands trembling as she did so, running her fingers and palms over his stomach and chest.

  From what Jen could see and feel, from Deacon’s hips up to his chest, his body was so well defined that it may as well have been sculpted. She was too caught up in the moment however, and besides, that wasn’t the only thing she was focusing on.

  In an instant Jen’s hands found the scars on his chest and ribs that she had felt beneath his shirt, and she glanced down to see them. They were silvery and smooth and rough all at once, and she touched them delicately, a little afraid even.

  The worst of them was the first one she’d found, two inches long, thin, though there were three in total across his broad chest.

  The kinds of scars a blade would leave behind.

  Jen ran her hands round to the sides of Deacon’s ribs, and found yet even more scars than she’d discovered earlier, and she traced her fingers over them delicately, kissing his chest softly.

  They were like puncture wounds, slipping between his ribs here and there.

  But then, the most terrifying of all, came when Jen slid her hands gracefully round to run tenderly up and down Deacon’s back. Her eyes widened and she swallowed nervously, though she did not speak, and continued to kiss his chest fondly, wishing she could heal his wounds and erase all memory of them completely.

  Raising her hands up onto his shoulders, Jen slowly turned Deacon so that he was facing away from her, and he complied, allowing her to move him, turning slowly and dropping his arms to his sides as if in defeat.

  His torso and shoulders were broad and strong, though his back tapered in at his waist, giving his body a lean, triangular shape.

  When she saw his back however, her mouth agape slightly, Jen caressed it with her fingers as softly as she possibly could, not wanting to hurt him. Of course, she knew the scars didn’t hurt now, but the pain they must have caused him in the past, she daren’t even begin to imagine.

  Lined across his back, taking Jen’s breath away and bringing tears to her eyes, were literally hundreds of scars, long and straight and thin, each one at least half a foot in length. They all sat horizontally, or just slightly off, one by one on top of each other, all the way up and down his back, from the very tops of his shoulders, right down to his coccyx.

  Deacon cringed and winced slightly and Jen ran her hands across them, tracing her fingers lightly up and down his spine. His shoulders lifted a little as he tensed reflexively, but after a few moments he began to relax, settling, and his shoulders dropped again.

  Jen kissed him gently on his back, making her way up and across the arch of his shoulders.

  Deacon leaned his head back and rested it gently against Jen’s as she clutched him tightly, kissing the back of his neck and wishing he’d never had to suffer so.

  Sometime later, Jen’s hand was in Deacon’s, as it seemed to be almost permanently now, and that was just the way she liked it.

  The afternoon sun looked down pleasantly upon them as they walked, and bathed them in its warm tenderness.

  Deacon had driven her most of the way back home, but they’d stopped off by the coast before they’d reached Keepers Cottage.

  They weren’t finished yet.

  “I’ve never told anybody about this before…” Deacon admitted. “It was my dad mainly. Everybody else was scared of him, so they just did what he told them…”

  Jen didn’t speak.

  She just listened, squeezing Deacon’s hand tightly.

  She knew this couldn’t have been easy.

  “I think my mom used to try to stand up to him, but he would beat her until she was unconscious, wait for her to wake up, and then beat her again. She stopped trying to fight him a long time ago…”

  Deacon sighed heavily.

  “It was hard times. We lived in a rough area.” He continued. “My dad thought drawing and painting was soft. He said it was a waste of time and money. He always said he would beat it out of me. Ever since I was little…”

  He smiled ruefully then, defiance clear in his eyes.

  “He hasn’t managed it yet, but if I was still there, I know he’d still be trying. I had to get out. I had to get away…”

  Jen nodded, though she was physically incapable of imagining what it must have been like.

  It must have been awful.

  “How…?” She managed to ask then, her voice a little shaky.

  “With a belt, usually.” Deacon replied casually, as if shrugging the whole thing off. “But with whatever he had to hand at the time really.”

  “What about the…?” Jen started. Faltering for a moment. “What about the others…?” She asked, and Deacon knew exactly what she meant.

  The ones that looked like puncture wounds.

  He nodded slowly, as if confirming her worst fears.

  “They were from a knife…”

  Jen’s breath caught and she felt physically sick to her stomach.

  “They weren’t about the drawings though…” Deacon began to explain. “They were when he came home drunk one night. Don’t get me wrong, he came home drunk most nights. But this time he was ruthless…”

  Even Jen’s breaths quivered as Deacon spoke, and she found that she was shaking slightly, petrified.

  “He came back late. Really late. My mom said something. I don’t know what, but it annoyed him. It really annoyed him. He went nuts.”

  Deacon spoke in short, sharp breaths; stating only fact.

  As they walked, the coastline in view now, though upon a section of it that Jen did not know, Deacon’s gaze was everywhere, and she knew that he saw everything, both in the past and in the present.

  “He started to hit her.” He continued. “Hard. I was getting older, and I’d had enough. It was stupid, but I was only protecting her. I threw myself in between them. I tried to fight him off.”

  Jen wanted to ask a hundred and more questions.

  She wanted to hold him and make all the painful memories vanish.

  But she couldn’t.

  She knew t
hey would be with him forever.

  And she understood that perhaps better than most.

  “He came at me with a knife.” Deacon continued, reminiscing the whole event as clear as day. “We were in the kitchen. It was only a small room. My mother was behind me. I had nowhere to go.”

  He laughed suddenly then, though remorsefully, and looked up at the huge expanse of sky swallowing everything below it, his voice thick with emotion.

  “I was lucky. He did this one first.” He said, tapping his chest where Jen knew the biggest of the scars was. “He forced the knife through my ribs and wrenched it left and right. He missed my heart though. He only punctured my lung. When I didn’t die straight away, he lost it. He just started stabbing at me wildly, randomly, all over the place.”

  Jen knew exactly how many more times Deacon’s father had got him. She had counted the scars herself, but she didn’t interrupt.

  “He got me twice more in the chest. Twice in the ribs that side…” He continued, indicating to the left of his torso. “And four times on that side…” He said then, pointing to his right side.

  He laughed again, though it wasn’t funny in the slightest.

  He was simply dredging humour out of terror.

  “Makes sense. He was a lefty…”

  “I…I can’t…I can’t imagine…” Jen attempted, but her words were lost in her shock. “Did he...? Did they call someone? An ambulance? The police?”

  “It was close.” Deacon admitted. “Very close. I was rushed to hospital in an ambulance. I think the police were probably involved too. I don’t really know. As soon as I was well enough, pretty much as soon as I could stand, I ran.”

  Jen reached round to Deacon’s side and pulled him into her arms.

  “It gave me a bit of a different perspective on life.” He admitted, pulling Jen close, feeling her body against his.

  “I like your perspective.” Jen replied immediately.

  And indeed she did.

  It was different.

  It was unique.

  Everything happens for a reason.

  Before long they found themselves on the beachfront, and after the revelations about Deacon’s past, they both needed a moment to let it all soak in. And so they just walked, hand in hand still, the stones crunching beneath their feet, seagulls cawing all around, diving down upon unsuspecting tourists, harassing them and stealing as much food as possible.