A dozen scenarios flashed through my mind. He blamed himself. It was right there in his words. I didn’t need to ask if it was true. We all blame ourselves in some way. It’s part of the grieving process, but that didn’t mean it was right. I didn’t know how to tell him that without getting shot down. If he was anywhere near as good at shooting down well-meaning words as I was, I knew it was pointless.
“Just tell me what happened.” It was the only way to help him move forward. I had to know.
He sipped and sighed. “It was her birthday, her twenty-fifth. We were out drinking.” He seemed to lose himself in the memory, and I let him. He needed to get through it; his panic attack clearly shook him, and maybe it was locking his memories away for so long that caused it.
“She decided that we all needed to go to this club, even though we were having a good time at the pub. I thought it was a bad idea, but Steph was…” He sighed again.
I don’t know why it hurt to hear her name. I knew it was stupid for so many reasons. What was I feeling? Jealousy over a dead girl? For a guy who wasn’t even mine? For feelings I could never have again, even if I’d wanted them? Get your head out of your arse, Bea. Ziggy was my friend.
“She was used to getting her own way, and it was her birthday, the day where no one got to tell her no, as she had been telling me all day.” He shook his head, and a faint smile curled his lips. That distant amusement showed me a glimpse of the affection he had for her and it was beautiful.
“We got to the club, and the line was a mile long” he sighed. “Steph wasn’t about to wait on the pavement on her birthday when she could be dancing. So naturally, she dragged us to the front of the line to flutter her eyelashes to the bouncer. We all knew her well enough to know that it was pointless to talk her out of it, so we let it happen.”
I smiled sympathetically when he seemed to notice me again.
“The bouncer was having none of it. He said it was funny how many women seemed to have birthdays every Saturday night and politely said that we should join the back of the queue with all the other ‘birthday girls.’ Steph wasn’t happy.”
I waited for him to continue. It seemed the wrong time to comment on how I couldn’t see him with such a high-maintenance girl.
“We tried to talk her into heading back to the pub, but her mind was set, so we trudged back to the end of the line.”
He took a couple of gulps of his other confidant, Jack.
“She was never what you’d call gracious in defeat.” He shook his head ruefully.
I just watched and listened. What could I say? She sounds like a right handful; you were well shot of her? Jesus.
“When we reached the point we could join the queue, she was in a mood. We were waiting outside a burger place, and we had a fair wait ahead of us, so our friends decided to eat, but Steph wasn’t going anywhere, therefore, neither was I. So, we waited. And we waited. The line didn’t move at all. She told me that’s how you knew it was amazing inside: No one wanted to leave, so no one new got in.”
Ziggy downed the rest of his bourbon and reached for more. “I asked her if her ideal birthday was really waiting outside a club that was so good, she would never see the inside. It was a mistake.” He was generous in refilling his glass, and I was surprised his words weren’t slurring by now. He offered me the bottle, and I took it, tucking it behind me. Out of sight, out of mind—
hopefully.
“She said I was a killjoy. and I never wanted to have fun.” He sipped and stared into the middle distance.
His face blanched and his eyes closed. Obviously, a visual had surfaced in his mind.
“These guys, drunk guys, came along with the food they’d just bought and got in the line with their mate in front of us. It was exactly what our friends were about to do, but Steph didn’t see it that way. As far as she was concerned, it was just five more people between her and her birthday night out.”
Another long swig made me nervous. He would soon be looking for the bottle again, so I spoke for the first time since his story began, urging him on. “So, she, umm, made a fuss?”
A mirthless laugh erupted from him. “Made a fuss? That’s an understatement.” Then he seemed to realise he was speaking ill of the…dead? I was assuming since he said he lost her. Whatever the case, he checked himself and tried again. “She told them they couldn’t cut in, and they had to get to the back. Seeing as how there were two people behind us and about a hundred in front, it really made no difference at all, and their friend had stayed in line to hold their place, but… Steph was fiery.”
“Did they move?“ I asked, forgetting for a moment that this wasn’t some anecdote. This was a retelling of probably the worst moment of his life.
He shook his head and stared into his glass like it held the meaning of life. “Nah, they laughed at her, then turned away.”
“Oh,” I murmured. I’d been expecting something more.
“Then one of them made some comment, and they all laughed.” He shrugged. “You know, to this day I can’t remember what he said, but the tone of their laughter, it was so belittling. I hated it. I still hate it. Steph was…she was difficult at times, but she was a good person and never deserved to be the butt of some drunk dickhead’s joke.” He swallowed hard. “It made me so mad.”
Ziggy’s body began to vibrate with the same tension I saw outside the bar a little while ago, and suddenly I realised the connection between the two scenarios.
“I confronted him, I think. It all happened so quickly, and the only eyewitnesses that came forward were his mates. I think I just tapped him on the shoulder. They say I called him names. Maybe I did both, but it was him that swung at me.”
I gasped. “Did he hurt you?”
Ziggy shook his head. “I’m too fast. My dad was a boxer, and I grew up in his gym. I hate violence; I can’t even tell you how much. I was raised in the ring among men who thought it was a sign of weakness to want to use words instead of fists to solve problems, so I had no choice but to learn to fight. Besides, the guy was drunk. He couldn’t have fought his way out of a paper bag.
“He gave it a go, though. He kept coming at me, and I kept telling him I wasn’t going to fight him. I dodged his clumsy attempts at swinging, and I kept myself between him and Steph. She was yelling at me. Me! I was trying to protect her, and she wanted me to lay him out, but he was drunk, and I wasn’t going to do that. Even sober, he wouldn’t have been any match, though. I’ve seen fighters fight drunk, and muscle memory takes over. This guy was sloppy at best; it wasn’t a fair fight.
“Steph was going off on one, the bouncers were so far down the line that they didn’t hear any of what was going on, and no one else seemed to care what was happening. I had one drunk idiot bearing down on us with his five drunk mates ready to wade in, and then there was Steph yelling at me because I wasn’t knocking their teeth out.”
Rubbing at his temple with his free hand, he seemed to surface from the memory for a moment. He offered me a weak smile and then sunk back into the sofa some more. With his head resting on the cushions, he focused on the ceiling and huffed.
“Jesus,” he hissed. “I haven’t talked about this in so long.”
My thoughts were running wild. Did the guy hurt her? Did the guy shove her, maybe into the road where a taxi couldn’t stop in time? Oh God. I couldn’t imagine what that would be like to witness. “It’s okay, you’re doing great,” I reassured him, reaching over and squeezing his thigh.
He scoffed and bent forward, his elbows again on his knees. “Don’t say that,” he groaned, grasping his hair once more in frustration. “You don’t know the half of it yet.”
I could feel his guilt coming off him in waves. I knew it well. It was a palpable thing. I wished I could take it away, allow him some peace, but I knew better. “Maybe not,” I said, “but I do know that grief and guilt are kind of a double act. It’s normal to blame yourself in some way. I know I did. But you can’t let it define you.”
; “Is that so?” He shot me a cold look. Well, I’d known it was futile, but it had to be said. I just nodded.
Ziggy didn’t look away. His hard stare turned from ice to stone. “Sparkles, there’s a reason why I’m a ghost,” he said barely above a whisper.
My fingers touched my lips in anticipation of what he would say next. “Why’s that?” I croaked.
“Because nobody wants to know a murderer.”
Chapter Eleven
He cleared his throat and sat up, blowing out like his body was preparing for a gruelling challenge. Then, the words started coming.
“At some point, our friends came back and pulled Steph away. Once she was off my back, I started trying to back down, but this guy…” Ziggy shook his head sorrowfully. “I think a Saturday wasn’t complete for him without at least ten pints and a scrap on the way home; and I know violence doesn’t solve anything…except when you just need to get a dick like him out of your face.”
He hung his head. “He was just outside of arms reach from me. We had circled in a few feet of space, and I’d kept him just far enough back. I knew I could step in closer fast enough to deliver a warning blow before he knew what was happening—just enough to let him know that he didn’t want to keep pressing my buttons, but not enough to do him any real damage. His head was cocked to the side, inviting me to dare. His nose had already seen better days. One more tap wasn’t going to cost him a modelling contract or anything, and as soon as the blood flowed, his night would be over. No pub or club would let him in, and he would have to run on home.”
“So, did you hit him?” I croaked. I couldn’t do anything but watch him relive his nightmare.
“Yeah. Well, no,” he sighed. “I threw the punch. I gave it, maybe, fifty percent. Like I said, he was hammered and useless. I had no interest in a victory; I just wanted an end.”
He stopped talking, perhaps he even stopped breathing. I could hear my kitchen clock ticking. I opened my mouth to ask what happened next when he spoke.
“I guess that’s what I got.”
Confused, I blinked. “What happened?”
“Steph wriggled out of our mate’s grasp, and, I don’t know, tried to jump the guy.”
“Did he hurt her?”
Ziggy’s head shook but still hung low. “He never got the chance. She crossed in front of me. Took the punch intended for his nose straight to her temple.” He sucked in a ragged breath. “She was dead before she hit the ground.”
I gasped and quickly covered my mouth, ashamed. I didn’t want to sound aghast; I was trying to be there for him. But it was too late. He heard my shock and mistook it for disgust. He looked defeated. My hand fell away from my mouth, landing uselessly in my lap, and silence filled the room like a blanket of thick frigid snow.
Moments passed while impotent words filled my brain, blocking out anything of use. Nothing I could say would be enough.
“One-punch Killer, I was called in the paper” he murmured, “like it was some sort of achievement.”
“God,” I whispered, touching his hand.
He started and looked up at me, seeming stunned. Had he expected me to be through with him? Should I have thrown him out? All I wanted to do was wrap him in my arms, but he looked so blown away by my remaining warmth towards him that I resisted. He was so vulnerable right then that it seemed to change him physically, and I didn’t want to overwhelm him.
“I—” my voice cracked. “I can’t even imagine. I’m so sorry,”
“It’s me who needs to be sorry, Sparkles,” he said softly, returning my touch where our fingers met. “You didn’t kill anyone.”
I gasped again, finally thinking about the aftermath. “Did they— Did you—” I swallowed. “What happened to you?” Apparently, there was no tactful way to ask what he was charged with. I’d been following his career, so I knew he hadn’t been locked up, or at least not for the last five years or so.
“Not nearly enough,” he folded his arms across his chest, looking affronted.
I frowned. “But you didn’t intend to hurt her.”
“I should have never thrown a punch. It shouldn’t matter what my intentions were. I used violence when there were other ways around the problem, and her life ended because of it. Because of me. They should have thrown away the key.”
“So, what did happen?”
“Someone called an ambulance and the police. Once they took her away, I was arrested.”
“And?” I asked anxiously, not being able to stand the idea of him alone, devastated and terrified in a police cell and worse…prison.
“I was charged with manslaughter. Involuntary manslaughter,” he said with disgust. “I confessed to killing her. I deserved worse, but the CPS decided there was no other charge to face.”
“Ziggy, I don’t understand. It was an accident.”
“I ended her life, Bea. Why should I get to continue living mine?”
My stomach turned over at the thought of what he has put himself through all these years. “Because it was a horrible accident.” I squeezed his hand.
He shook his head. “I knew what I was doing. That guy was sloppy drunk. I was sober. I made a decision to hit him. I had the time and presence of mind to decide where to strike, how hard and what damage I wanted to inflict. Sure, my intention was to put an end to the situation, but if I’d managed to hit him, and he died, it would have been so different. That would have been premeditated, right? I considered it before I acted.”
“But you couldn’t have known it would go so wrong. You had no control over it.”
“Well, they agreed with you, no matter what I said.”
“How— Did—” Oh for heaven’s sake, spit it out, Bea. “Did you get any time?” I blew out a breath, not sure I could handle the thought of him inside knowing how he was thinking at the time.
Ziggy shook his head. “I confessed and pled guilty. It was deemed involuntary. They had CCTV clearly showing me trying to defuse the situation before I acted. It also showed that it was me giving her CPR for seven minutes before the ambulance arrived.”
Tears spilled down my cheeks and I gave in to the urge to hold him. “Christ, Ziggy,” I hissed, pulling him into my arms. I held him there for a minute while he let go of his tears. “I’m so sorry,” I soothed.
“Her parents spoke for me in court. That killed me.” He pulled back, wiping his eyes. “I took their daughter away from them, and they told the judge that I was a good boy who deserved to have a bright future.”
“Shhh,” I stroked his hair, pulling him back. “They were right. You didn’t deserve any of this. You have as much right to happiness as anyone.”
“I can’t—” A sob choked him, and I cried with him.
Things started to make sense, little by little, as we rocked.
“This is why you stay anonymous,” I said quietly. It wasn’t a question, just clarity.
He nodded in my arms.
“Because you don’t want your name known in case people make a connection?”
“Not really,” he sniffed, straightening a little but letting me keep my arms around him. “I was depressed for a long time, and I hardly left the house. I began doing artwork for me just to get my feelings out in some way. It was therapeutic. I posted on a couple of sites, and things just kind of snowballed. Before long, I was being offered work, so I just hid behind my user name so that I didn’t have to meet people. I was in no state to accept praise. I didn’t even want the money. As I became known, I just didn’t feel like I deserved success. It wasn’t right. I should have been the one with nothing. So, I stayed hidden.”
It all hurt so much to hear. He was so wrong, and I wished I could convince him, but this was a decade’s worth of self-loathing, and I had to face up to the fact that I had known some of these feelings myself. I wanted to help him, but it was going to take time.
One thing I knew for sure was I wasn’t going to give up on him. I cared.
I cared a lot.
Fuck.
>
Chapter Twelve
After the reality and the Jack Daniels sank in, I found myself laying across my sofa with my back to Ziggy’s chest. It hadn’t been a conscious choice but holding him while he cried turned into talking. Lots of talking. He recounted the brutal details of trying to save her when she was already gone, and he told me what 48-hours in police custody had been like. I’d imagined him terrified and stricken with grief, but he painted a rather more stoic image. He told me how he’d internalised all his fear and the grief of losing Steph because, as her killer, it wasn’t his right to grieve her loss. That was for her family. He owed it to them to quietly accept his punishment.
His tears had subsided, and, at some point, talk had turned to Lewis. It was so refreshing to talk to someone my own age about loss, but at the same time, tragic. After a while, words had ceased. We lay so comfortably together that, had it not been for the strand of my hair Ziggy was playing with, I would have assumed he was asleep.
“You awake?” Ziggy whispered.
“Yeah.”
He sighed with relief and shifted beneath me. “Good, I have a cramp,” he muttered, stretching out and cursing.
“You should have said something.” I sat up, letting him get to his feet to ease his discomfort.
“Sorry,” he chuckled. “It kind of crept up on me.”
I yawned and laughed.
“I should let you go to bed,” he said distantly, looking at his phone to check the time. “Fuck, it’s past four.”
I’d had no idea how long we’d talked and even less idea how long we lay silently together, but the hint of natural light seeping in around the curtains should have been a clue. There was no way I was letting him travel home, even if the trains were running at this hour. “Stay here,” I suggested.
Ziggy eyed the sofa and instinctively flexed his foot again. “Nah, it’s fine. I’ll get a cab and let you get some sleep.”
I laughed. “I won’t make you sleep on this thing. Don’t worry.”
His eyes widened almost imperceptibly.
Lucky Scars Page 9
