Binding_13_Boys of Tommen

by Chloe Walsh

No.

  No.

  Sweet Jesus, no!

  "I'm going to bed." I tucked the paper under my arm before trudging out of the room – and not bastard limping.

  "Give me my paper," Mam called after me, laughing. "I want to frame that picture."

  "No, you're bleeding not," I shot back with a huff.

  When I reached my bedroom, I flipped the lock on the door and dropped the paper on my bed before heading straight to my ensuite bathroom.

  Kicking off my clothes, I flicked on the shower and stepped inside.

  Carefully lowering myself to the floor, I hooked my arms around my knees and bent my head.

  I didn’t have the energy to stand.

  Mam was right.

  I wasn’t match-fit.

  Sitting beneath the flow of scalding water, I closed my eyes as a shudder rolled through me.

  Using one hand, I pushed my hair back from my face and exhaled a bitter sigh as every fear and concern about my future traveled to the fore point of my mind.

  My life was going to hell.

  My body was falling apart.

  My dreams were slipping out the window.

  I had a whole heap of problems to worry about.

  And still, I couldn’t get her out of my head.

  Midnight fucking blue eyes and painfully accurate words.

  And now it was worse because not only was she in my thoughts 24/7, but I had a bleeding picture of her to torment myself with.

  And I would torment myself with that picture.

  I planned on it.

  19

  Late Night Reality Checks

  Shannon

  "Good day?" were the words I was greeted with when I stepped through the front door after my disastrous car ride with Johnny.

  Now, if anyone else in the whole wide world had asked me that question, I would have had a response, but this was my father we were talking about.

  He was standing in the small hallway, with a rolled-up newspaper clutched in his hand, asking me about my day, and that was a terrifying concept.

  "Are you fucking deaf?" he demanded as he glared down at me, the white around his brown eyes completely bloodshot. "I asked you a question, girl."

  The stench of whiskey from his breath impaled my senses and my anxiety sky-rocketed as I mentally tried to figure this out.

  He was paid his social welfare benefits on Thursdays.

  That was the bad day.

  Not Tuesdays.

  Then I thought about what day it was and mentally slapped myself for being unprepared.

  Today was March 1st

  And it was the first Tuesday of the month.

  Children's allowance day.

  The day the Irish government made their monthly cash payment to parents for every child they had.

  Which meant hundreds of euros wasted in the bookies and the pubs.

  Which meant weeks of struggling and scraping by would be incurred by our family because of my father's inability to control himself.

  My heart sank.

  Muttering a quick response, I retrieved my house key from the lock, slipped it into my coat and sidestepped his huge frame with the intention of swiping a packet of biscuits from the kitchen cupboard and then hightailing it to the sanctuary of my room.

  With my wits about me and my brain on full alert, I managed to make it to the kitchen, but like a bad smell, both figuratively and literally, my father trailed after me.

  Dad leaned against the doorframe, clenching the newspaper in his hand, and blocking my exit. "How was school?"

  I kept my back to him, busying myself with browsing through soup packets and tins of beans when I answered, "Okay."

  "Okay?" he sneered. "We're paying four thousand euros a year for okay?"

  There it was.

  There he was.

  "It was good, Dad," I quickly injected. "I had a productive day."

  "Productive day?" he mimicked, tone derisive and cruel. "Don’t get fucking smart with me, girl."

  "I wasn’t."

  "And you're late," he barked, his words a drunken slur. "Why the fuck are you late again?"

  "I missed my bus," I squeezed out, panicked.

  "Fucking buses," he snarled. "Fucking private school. You're a pain in the hole, girl!"

  There was nothing to say to that, so I kept quiet.

  The way he always called me girl, like it was some sort of insult to be a female, didn’t even irk me tonight.

  I was in full self-preservation mode, knowing what I had to do to get out of this room unscathed: take his shit, keep my mouth shut, and pray he left me alone.

  "Do you know where your mother is, girl?" he snarled.

  Again, I didn’t respond.

  It wasn’t a real question.

  He was pumping me with information before the onslaught.

  "Breaking her back over you!" Dad roared. "Working herself to the bone because you're a spoiled, little cunt who thinks she's better than everyone."

  "I don’t think I'm better than anyone," I mumbled, and then immediately regretted throwing verbal petrol on his already burning temper.

  "Look at you," Dad sneered, waving a hand at me. "In your fancy fucking private school uniform. Coming home late. Thinking you are god's fucking gift. Were you whoring yourself around?" He demanded, taking a few staggering steps towards me. "Is that why you're late again? Got yourself a little boyfriend?"

  I immediately recoiled but didn’t dare open my mouth to defend myself.

  He wouldn’t believe me either way.

  Nine times out of ten, it made it worse.

  And ten times out of ten, answering him back resulted in a stinging cheek.

  "That's it, isn’t it? You've been messing around with one of those posh, rugby pricks with daddies' money at your precious Tommen," he sneered. "Spreading your legs like the dirty, little tramp you are!"

  "I don’t have a boyfriend, Dad," I strangled out.

  Swinging his arm back, he wacked me across the face with the rolled-up paper. "Don’t fucking lie to me, girl!"

  "I'm not lying," I sobbed, clutching my burning cheek.

  Being slapped across the face with a rolled-up newspaper might not sound like a painful thing, but when the man yielding the weapon weighed three times what you did, it hurt.

  "Explain this, then," my father demanded. Tearing open the newspaper, he roughly flicked through the pages until stopping on the sports section. "Explain him!"

  Blinking away tears, I looked down at the page Dad was pointing at and immediately felt my blood run cold.

  There I was, in full technicolor, smiling for the stupid photographer, with Johnny's arm wrapped around my waist, all smiles and blushed cheeks.

  I couldn’t think about the picture or question why it was printed on the biggest newspaper in Ireland because I was terrified.

  I was so frightened that I could taste it.

  You're going to die, Shannon.

  This is the night he's going to kill you…

  "He's the captain of the rugby team," I hurried to say, trying to think up a lie to get myself out of the beating I knew full well I was about to receive. "They won some big match," I rambled, desperately clutching at straws. "Mr. Twomey, the principal, had us all stand in for a picture with him...I don’t even know him, Dad, I swear!"

  I knew I should have expected my father's next move, he'd perfected it to a fine art down through the years, but when he clutched my throat and slammed me against the fridge, I was still caught off-guard.

  Squeezing tightly, he hissed, "You are lying to me –"

  "I'm...not," I strangled out, clawing at his hands. "Dad…please…I can't…breathe –"

  The sound of the front door opening and then quickly closing filled the air.

  Dad released my throat and I physically sagged in relief.

  Gasping for air, I scrambled away from him.

  Seconds later, Joey appeared in the doorway, looking like a gift sent from god with a grease stained
face and oil-covered overalls.

  Joey patted Dad's shoulder and then pushed him aside with ease before strolling into the kitchen, swinging a set of keys around his fingers. "How's it going, family?"

  He looked relaxed and sounded cheerful, but the tightness around his eyes assured me that he was anything but.

  Acting like he didn’t have a care in the world was Joey's coping mechanism.

  Mine was turning mute.

  "Joey," Dad acknowledged, looking slightly more alert now at the presence of the more dominant alpha in the family.

  Our father may be big and bitter, but Joey was bigger and faster.

  "Boys up in bed?" Joey asked, grabbing a can of coke from the fridge.

  Dad nodded but didn’t take his eyes off me.

  "Where's Mam?" Joey asked, obviously trying to ease the tension. Cracking open the cap, he took a deep swig, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Still at work?"

  "Your mother's at work and this one here is late home again," our father barked. He pointed a finger at me and slurred, "Missed her fucking bus apparently."

  "I know," Joey replied breezily, before turning his attention to me. "How's it going, Shan?"

  "Hey, Joe," I croaked out, clenching then unclenching my fists to stop my hands from moving to my throat, as I desperately tried to get my heartbeat under control. "Nothing. Just hungry. I was getting a snack."

  Joey walked over to where I was standing, feet frozen to the floor, and playfully nudged my cheek with his knuckles.

  It was a tender display of affection and a silent show of solidarity.

  "Did Aoife stay long when she drove you home?"

  My eyes widened in confusion.

  The look my brother gave me said go with it.

  Realization dawned on me.

  My brother was giving me an out.

  "Uh, no," I choked out, eyes locked on Joey. "She just dropped me off and went straight home."

  Joey winked his approval and then reached around me, shoving his hand into the back of the cupboard –the one I couldn’t reach without the help of a chair. "Here." Pulling out a packet of chocolate biscuits, he handed them to me. "No doubt, these are what you're looking for?"

  "It's not a halfway house," Dad slurred.

  "This is my food, old man," Joey shot back coolly, turning to face our father. "Bought with my money. From my job."

  "This is my house!"

  "A house given to you by the government," Joey countered coolly. "Because of us."

  "Don’t get smart with me, boy," Dad shot back, but his tone lacked its usual punch.

  Drunk as he was, our father was quite aware that the shit he pulled with me wouldn’t float with my brother.

  They'd had several belting matches down through the years, but the fight that burned brightest in my memory was the one that had occurred this past November.

  The fight had been about the usual; infidelity.

  Dad had been caught with another woman, no surprises there, and had decided to up and leave us for the other woman – again, no surprises there.

  Mam had just found out she was pregnant the day he left and had taken to the bed.

  Joey and I had spent almost two weeks taking care of the younger boys and cleaning up the mess our parents had made.

  When our father finally rolled through the door, ten days later, stinking of whiskey and throwing shit at Mam, my brother had lost it.

  He and Dad ended up brawling in the living room, smashing through furniture and ornaments as they went for each other.

  That wasn’t why it stood out, though.

  It stood out because the fight had ended with my father curled up on the living room floor in the fetal position while my brother delivered blow after merciless blow to his face.

  It was absolute carnage, and while Dad had managed to break Joey's nose, it was my brother who'd come out on top.

  Dad was in a bad way after the beating he'd taken, and in a screwed-up way it had worked to his advantage because Mam had felt sorry for him and taken him back.

  However depressing that day was for us, as the children of toxic parents, it also signified a shift in power.

  That day's events showed our father that he was not the top dog anymore.

  There was a new dog in town – one who'd taken one too many beatings from him and was prepared to shut his shit down at any moment.

  "Shannon," Joey said, tone level, eyes locked on our father. "It's getting late. Why don’t you head on up to bed?"

  Joey didn’t need to tell me twice.

  Taking the offered escape like a drowning victim would take a lifejacket, I made a beeline for the stairs, halting in my tracks when Dad blocked the doorway.

  "I’m not done talking to her," he slurred.

  "Well, she's done talking to you," Joey deadpanned, coming to stand behind me. "So, get out of her way, old man. Now."

  There was a solid thirty second stare down between them before Dad finally stepped aside.

  Bolting out of the kitchen, I ran up the staircase at top speed, not stopping until I was safely holed up in my bedroom with the door closed and the lock turned.

  Barely taking time to catch a breath, I tossed the biscuits on my bedside locker, stripped out of my uniform as fast as humanly possible, and threw on my pajamas before diving onto my bed.

  Scrambling under the covers, I reached for the portable discman under my pillow and pulled the covers up to my chin.

  I had one earplug in when the screaming started.

  Seconds later, the sound of furniture crashing filled my ears.

  My stomach churned and I quickly rammed the other earplug in before firing up the old, discolored discman.

  Fumbling with the buttons, I pressed play and turned the volume up to maximum level, praying the batteries had enough juice left in them to block out the hell that was my home.

  Clicking onto the loudest, hardest metal track on the CD, I laid back on my pillow and remained perfectly still, body rigid and coiled tight with tension.

  Four songs in and my heartbeat returned to normal rhythm.

  Three more songs and the ability to form coherent thoughts returned.

  It wasn’t always like this.

  Weeknights were mostly okay, with the exception of Thursdays, when Dad got his social welfare money at the post office.

  The weekends could be sketchy, but I was fantastic at avoiding confrontation with my father.

  If he was drinking on a week day, I always made it my business to be home from school, dinner eaten, and locked in my bedroom by six o’clock.

  If he was drinking at the weekends, I didn’t come out of my room at all.

  However, the events of today had thrown me and I had made a fatal mistake.

  Johnny had thrown me.

  I let down my guard.

  I forgot.

  The album played to the end and I flicked it back on, repeating it on a loop.

  It was only when I heard the sound of the bedroom door next to mine slamming over the music in my ears that I unlocked my coiled muscles.

  He was okay.

  Exhaling a shuddering breath, I lowered the volume and listened carefully.

  Silence.

  Pulling out my earbuds, I threw the covers off and climbed out of bed.

  Tiptoeing over to my bedroom door, I turned the lock and crept into the empty landing.

  Feeling my way over to Joey's door in the dark, I grabbed the door handle and slipped inside.

  "Joe?" I whispered when my eyes landed on him. He was sitting on the edge of his bed in his boxer shorts, holding a wad of toilet paper to his mouth. "You okay?"

  "I'm grand, Shan," he bit out, tone sharp, as he dabbed the tissue against his bottom lip. "You should go to bed."

  "You're bleeding," I strangled out, eyes locked on the stream of blood stained tissue.

  "It's just a busted lip," he shot back, sounding a little irritated. "Just go back to your room."

  I didn’t.r />
  I couldn’t.

  I must have hovered at his door for a long time because when Joey looked up at me, his expression was resigned. Sighing heavily, he ran a hand through his hair and then patted the mattress beside him. "Come on."

  Bolting over to him, I collapsed down on the bed and wrapped my arms around my brother's neck, clinging to him like he was the only thing holding my world together.

  Sometimes I thought that might be true.

  "It's okay, Shan," he whispered, comforting me.

  "I'm sorry," I choked out, tightening my hold on his neck. Tears spilled over my cheeks. "I'm so sorry, Joe."

  "It's not your fault, Shan."

  "But I made him mad –"

  "Not your fault," my brother repeated, tone stern.

  "I don’t want to be here anymore, Joe."

  "Me either."

  "I'm sick of feeling scared all the time."

  "I know." He patted my back and then stood. "One of these days, everything will be better. I promise."

  Walking over to his wardrobe, he pulled open the doors and dragged out the familiar sleeping bag and spare pillows.

  I didn’t have to ask what he was doing; not when I already knew and it made my heart squeeze tight.

  When Joey was finished setting up the makeshift bed on the floor, he dropped onto it.

  Folding his arms behind his head, he released a heavy sigh. "Turn off the light, will ya, Shan?"

  Complying, I leaned over the bed and flicked off his lamp before climbing into his empty bed.

  "Thanks Joey," I sniffled, wiping my nose with the back of my hand, as I settled under the covers.

  "No problem."

  Turning onto my side, I looked down at him lying on his bedroom floor.

  His curtains were closed, but the streetlamps on the footpath outside the house cloaked the room in a dull hue of faded color, illuminating the shadows on my brother's face.

  "Hey, Joe?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Can you do me a favor?"

  He tipped his chin up, letting me know he was listening.

  "Please don’t do to me what Darren did to us." Folding my hands under my cheek, I whispered, "Don’t leave me."

  "I won't," my brother vowed, tone laced with grit and sincerity. "I won't ever leave you here with him."

  I breathed out a shaky breath. "Mam is never going to leave him –"