“Well, she was gone more than she was home for the first few years of my life and Dad was all I had. Believe it or not, he’s not fused to that chair. He used to run a boxing gym. In his day, he was a champion, maybe that’s what attracted my mum to him in the first place. She has always been something of a glory hunter.” Ziggy shook his head wistfully.
“It probably was one too many knocks to the head that changed him,” he continued. “He gradually lost his sense of humour, his ability to chill out. I can’t blame him for having no patience with my mum; she checked out long before he did. But she was quick to blame boxing for his anger issues and was perfectly happy to lay the blame for her leaving squarely at his feet. It was bullshit; she barely needed a reason to hit the road. If she was that worried about his temper, she wouldn’t have left me behind and never looked back.”
“Was he violent?” I asked quietly.
Ziggy shook his head. “Nah, he didn’t knock me about, if that’s what you mean. He’d fly off the handle at the slightest thing, but no, he never hit me or mum, no matter how she provoked him or what she would try and have you believe.”
I blinked. Increasingly stunned by the picture he was painting of his past.
“After she just upped and left, his moods didn’t improve. Beer became his friend; problem was it wasn’t really anyone else’s friend. A foul temper combined with near constant inebriation and very little business acumen were not the ideal traits of a business owner. It only took a couple of bad decisions and the bank took the gym away. If I thought he was a mess before…” he drifted off into thought.
“So, this workplace injury?”
Ziggy shrugged. “After they took the gym, he had to sign-on the dole. Believe it or not, he was a proud man back in those days. His business had failed, and his wife had left him to go off chasing rock stars and sleeping with roadies to get backstage. She had told anyone that would listen that too many knocks to the head had made him a violent man, and since people always believe the worst, I guess he thought it was easier to go along with the idea that fighting had scrambled his brain. His GP agreed that, yes, in theory, it was possible for repeated concussions to cause changes in a person’s temperament and behaviour. So, without any real evidence, this thing became fact.”
“He couldn’t work because he’d been ‘injured in the workplace.’ God, he was a mess,” he scoffed. “Actually, ignore that, he is a mess. Worse now than ever, I think.”
“How old were you?”
“Eight, almost nine. Awesome age to start being the grown-up of the house.” He gave me the least sincere thumbs up of all time and shook his head bitterly.
“I’m so sorry, Ziggy, it must have been awful.”
“Life’s a bitch.”
“So, what about now? Why do you stay?”
He scrubbed his face again like he always does when he’s thinking what to tell me.
“If I wasn’t there, I think he would just ruin himself.”
My eyebrows rose slowly.
“Okay,” he chuckled, “faster and more completely than he’s ruining himself now. Like a week, maybe, is all he would live.”
I choked on my Ramen. “Sorry, it’s not funny,” I croaked, wiping my chin with a napkin.
Ziggy laughed too. “It kind of is. Depressingly funny, but still funny.”
“Seriously, though,” I breathed hoarsely. “That is not your responsibility. He’s a grown man and so are you. Why are you really still there?”
“I was going to get out. I’d had enough of his shit and wanted to start my own life. I knew he would say I was just like my mother, running away to be selfish, but I was legally an adult and he couldn’t stop me. I was saving money, but he made me start paying rent as soon as I got a job, so I couldn’t save much. I’m sure that was his plan, and it meant he had more money for his vices.
“But after I—when Steph died, I just didn’t have it in me.” He looked at me sincerely. “You know how it is. Loss stops life in its tracks.”
“So, you shutdown, stayed in your room, didn’t go out, and just kept out of each other’s way?”
“Yeah, I lost my crappy job at the cinema and didn’t care. Drawing was my therapy, and solitude was my comfort. I started selling artwork online. At first, little bits of money would come in, and I wouldn’t tell him. By then, he’d taken to calling out my laziness and telling me I would have been more use to him in prison where I belonged because at least they’d be feeding me and maybe teaching me a skill.” A sardonic grin curled his lips. “He’s nothing if not supportive.”
“Did he find out you were making money?”
“He never let up, and, in the end, it was easier to tell him I was working online. He naturally assumed all I ever did in my room was play ‘them fucking pointless video games,’ so I just didn’t argue. It gave me a little satisfaction to let him think that the thing he most put me down for was actually earning some money. He’s so out of touch that he’d never know how that would even work, anyway. I just wanted to keep him away from the one thing I had. If he thought I was making money from art, he would go after me for that too.”
“That really sucks, Zig.”
“Eh,” he shrugged. “Earning money from the only thing in life I was enjoying was pretty cool, and he motivated me to keep at it because money kept him off my back. Then one day, I realised there was going to have to be a limit to how much I admitted to earning. I got a commission and stupidly told him I had this money coming in, so he demanded a big old chunk of it for ‘all the shit he’d done for my sorry arse.’ The bender he went on with it showed me that he wasn’t ever going to go back to being the proud fighter he once was. So, that was, as far as he was concerned, my one and only big job, and we went back to making ends meet, you know, ‘when I could be bothered to get up off my arse and contribute,’ that is.” He rolled his eyes.
“I don’t know what to say,” I told him gravely. I couldn’t even begin to imagine growing up in that kind of environment.
“You don’t have to say anything, Bea. I got really damn good at doing something I love, and I was lucky enough to be able to do it when I should’ve been rotting in a cell.”
I took a deep breath. Something told me that correcting him each time he referred to what he thought he deserved for playing a part in Steph’s death was fruitless.
He nodded appreciatively at my restraint.
“When the money really started coming in, it was a problem,” he said.
“The money was a problem?”
“Well, yeah, having it had to be a secret. So, I couldn’t spend it on anything he would notice, even if I’d wanted to. And it wasn’t just the money; I had to open a P.O. Box so that he didn’t get suspicious about all the paperwork. I mean, I’m supposed to be an unemployed loser, not the director of a limited company.”
“So you hide it?”
“Yep. His benefits barely pay the rent, so they couldn’t support his lifestyle too. For a few years, I paid my part, which was more than he deserved and less than he wanted. Then when the council started selling off flats privately to long-standing tenants, I decided to use the money I had saved to buy ours. He doesn’t know. He thinks a private landlord bought it and rents it back to us as council tenants. He pays his half of the rent to the ‘landlord,’ and he thinks I pay the other half. I don’t need his money, but he needs me to take it from him. If he thinks I can afford to cover it all, he’ll spend every penny he gets from the government on booze and smokes and down the bookies. I keep it all saved up in an account in case he ever really needs it. Don’t get me wrong, I would support him gladly if things were different, but they aren’t.”
“Wow. That’s a lot. And he thinks you sit around playing video games and call it a job?”
“Yeah, little does he know those games, or at least the artwork for them, have kept a roof over his head the last ten years.”
“So, what exactly does he think you do?”
“I just let him think wh
at he wants to think. I keep the fridge just full enough that he won’t die and just empty enough that he has to drag his arse out the door every now and again. I keep myself to myself, and we live mostly separate lives.”
“Zig,” I say softly, sympathetically, and he shakes his head.
“Please don’t feel bad for me. I’m fine. I hide the money to protect him; that’s all.”
“So, what do you do with it all?” He must have been saving all this time.
“After I bought the flat, I didn’t need any more. So, I donate some, well, a lot, to different charities: abused women, anger management, victims’ families.” He told me with a smile, but it felt forced.
“Oh, Ziggy.” I reached for his hand, but he pulled back, his smile slipping from his face.
“I don’t need it or want it, and, besides, I don’t deserve it.”
There were fifty different questions clamoring for position in my head, but I decided not to lead with the burning one, and, instead, focus first on the practicalities. “So why earn it?”
Ziggy shrugged. “Because it can do some good.”
I let out an incredulous breath. “You’ve made yourself the highest paid graphic artist in the industry, so you can…” I shook my head and pressed my fingers into my temples, “do some good?”
“I didn’t make myself that on purpose; it just happened. But yeah, it does good. So?”
He was getting defensive, and I really didn’t want to lose him when I felt like we were getting somewhere. “No, it is good, Ziggy. It’s amazing. But what about you?”
“What about me?”
“You’re living like you don’t matter.” I was trying not to let my feelings overwhelm me. I shouldn’t be feeling this protective of him.
He chewed at his lip and looked away somewhere into the middle distance.
I could see the grief written all over his features, and I knew I shouldn’t press, but maybe because I was a little thrown off by how I was feeling towards him, press I did. “Let me tell you something: I know that losing the one you love makes you feel guilt at every turn because you get to live and they couldn’t, but you’ve been earning damn good money for doing a damn good job, and yet you’re living like you’ve never had a chance in life. Why?”
“Because I don’t deserve a chance, that’s why,” he snapped.
I sat back in shock.
“He could have given me life. Do you know that? If he had decided I remained a threat to society, the judge could have exercised his power to give me the maximum term for manslaughter, which is life.”
“But you’re not a threat,” I stammered. “It was involuntary.”
“Was it?” He stared me down, and I didn’t falter. “Causing her death was, but throwing the punch wasn’t. I took away her life with my bare hands because I was selfish and thoughtless and angry. Whose call should it be? The judge was a coward. I deserved to be punished.”
“But for how long?” There was pleading in my tone. It hurt me to watch him be so hard on himself, and I knew I was seeing just the tip of the iceberg.
“Well, it’s been ten years; life means at least fifteen before you can apply for parole. So…”
I gasped. “You’re actually timing it, aren’t you?”
Once again, Ziggy lifted his shoulders in a shrug which failed to conceal how much thought he had given it.
“So, five more years and then what? You ask yourself for parole?”
Ziggy snorted without humour.
“I’m serious, Ziggy. Have you even considered where this all ends? Or are you just going to rot away in that bedroom you treat like a cell in that flat you treat like a prison? Because you might think you’re doing something noble, but all you’re doing is wasting another life.”
Ziggy sucked in a sharp breath. Then he stood, feeling through his pockets until he found his wallet. He pulled out a couple of notes and placed them on the table while I stared at him in disbelief.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I shouldn’t have let you see any of this.”
“Zig, wait!” I implored weakly.
But he left without another word, and I didn’t go after him.
Chapter Fourteen
The flat was so empty without him. At that moment, I knew I was in trouble. Sleep evaded me, and in the early morning, I was left with only my thoughts. How had I gone from safe in my bubble, not letting anyone or anything get close enough to unbalance my life, to this? I couldn’t be feeling things. I just couldn’t. I wouldn’t allow it. I didn’t have the capacity for it anymore, I was so certain. And yet…
I should have gone after him. I was shocked, I suppose. I couldn’t believe I’d got so angry and that made me angry with myself. It wasn’t my place to tell him he was wrong. It was his guilt, and how many times in my own life had I thrown off the support of others so I could guard ownership of my own guilt? It didn’t matter that the guilt was different; it only mattered that it was his. Yelling at him wasn’t the way to get him to see reason.
I shouldn’t have pushed him. Should-a, would-a, could-a. What a bloody disaster. My phone ringing startled me, and it took a minute to locate it in my sheets. After a short scramble, I pulled it out, hoping more than I should that it would be Ziggy.
It was my dad’s name on the screen, and I huffed.
“Hey, Dad,” I said wearily.
“Morning,” he said warmly, then he paused. “You okay, baby girl?”
Shit. “Yeah, why?” I asked cautiously, trying to be more careful with my tone to avoid questions.
“You sound down.”
I tried to disguise the deep breath I had to take in order to answer him, but it was unavoidable. Everything felt like an effort. “I’m not down; I’m good.”
“Trixie,” he said in warning, letting me know that he wasn’t buying my brush off in the least and reminding me what it would mean for me if he couldn’t trust my word on my wellbeing. We had come a long way in the last few years, but systems were still very much in place to carry out with practiced efficiency should I fail to pass the “I’m okay, Dad” test. I hadn’t forgotten what those years on the watch list were like—twice-daily phone checkins, almost daily visits, weekends spent together, being fed to bursting with food I didn’t want, and smothered with concern and affection I wasn’t ready to accept.
“Really, Dad, I’m fine. Just had a bad night’s sleep.”
“Baby girl, even after all this time, it’s okay to have a bad night once in a while.”
I smiled fondly at his love and concern, even though he was wrong this time. “No Dad, it wasn’t bad because of that.”
“Oh?” his voice had changed from the usual concern to healthy curiosity, and I had walked right into twenty questions in my attempt to avoid sympathy.
I sighed.
“It’s nothing, Dad. I just couldn’t sleep. Got a few work things playing on my mind, that’s all.”
There was a long silence on his end, and I could almost hear the scenarios he was running through in his head like drills. How far had I slipped? How much love would I need? How fast could the extraction team get me out of my pit of despair and back to base?
“Dad, I can hear your wheels turning. Honestly, I’m fine. I need coffee, that’s all. I should get up and get moving.”
He hesitated. “If you’re sure you’re okay…”
“I am. I’ll call you tomorrow when I’ve had a good night’s sleep, and you’ll see.”
“Alright then, baby girl. Look after yourself. I love you.”
“I love you too, Dad.” I hung up while he was somewhat convinced I was fine. I knew how to quit while I was ahead.
Of course, the only problem was that it was a little shy of seven AM, and I was left with only one option: actually get my arse up and get moving. Was Starbucks even open this early?
It was a rhetorical question, of course, and I was sitting at one of its tables picking at my double-chocolate muffin within thirty minutes. The place was already h
umming with activity, but I sat within the hum, simply contemplating. It was the thought of never seeing Ziggy in the office again which troubled me the most. I knew I would see him again because I would bloody go to his flat and wait with his dad until he showed up if I had to. It was the thought that he would decide this was the reason that a day job wasn’t for him, and I would never again get to look up from my work and watch him at his. I had grown fond of him being my view. Watching him work was a privilege. It had nothing to do with the adorable way he fisted his hair when thinking and then swept it back from his face with his fingers when he got an idea he wanted to pursue, or the way his lips moved when he sketched as if he was having a conversation with the pencil.
Shit.
It had everything to do with those things and a million tiny others. The fact that he knew my tastes, my favourites.
It was those little stars he left around for me. I never saw him make them; they just appeared.
He was so inside the useless bubble, at this point, it was practically a duplex.
I audibly growled at myself and threw a chocolate chip at the plate.
“Is this a bad time?”
I started and looked up to see Jonathan.
I felt the guilt from how Saturday night ended wash over me in a wave that I know stained my cheeks. “Jonathan,” I breathed.
“Can I join you?” He gestured at the empty chair opposite me. “Or will I have to duck pieces of muffin?” He flashed me a cheeky smile, and my tension left me in a whoosh.
“I’ll call a cease fire.” I sighed and pushed the chair out with my foot in invitation. I owed him an apology.
“That’s very generous of you.” He dusted off a few muffin crumbs and then took a seat.
A silence fell while I ran through my apology options, but he beat me to it with his usual charm.
“Was your friend okay?” I didn’t miss the absence of Ziggy’s name in his question, even though I knew he knew it. I let him have it, though. I had derailed his plans by bringing Ziggy and then left with him to boot. I could hardly expect him to be thrilled about it.
Lucky Scars Page 11
