Take A Breath
S.K. Paisley
Take a Breath
Published by Celandine
First published March 2014
Copyright © S. K. Paisley 2014
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the purchaser. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to another person. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you'd like to share it with. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.
ISBN: 978-0-9928440-0-4
www.celandinebooks.com
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the author
For Jamie
Prologue
Pulling her mirror compact from the depths of her overflowing carrier bag, the girl began to apply gloss to her glacé-cherry lips. As she balanced on the back of the bench, her booted feet resting on the seat, she smacked her lips together with a pantomime pout. Some of the men in hard hats downed tools, reckoning up if she was old enough for their wolf whistles to pass. Her unbuttoned denim jacket delineated her blossoming bosom; her skirt was hitched high up her suntanned thighs. All make-up, glitter and sparkle, penny-farthing earrings and sweet perfume.
Her fingers jangled the coins in her pocket. The exact change for her bus. She waited, pretending to ignore the stir of excitement from the other side of the road. As she readjusted the earpiece of her headphones, the music screeched like tyres on wet tarmac. A surge of energy rippled through her and a smile stole across her face.
She was sixteen years old and knew her power. The kind of girl boys worshipped, mothers hated and fathers wanted to fuck.
Chapter One
Paul positioned himself in the centre of the couch. His hand went to his face and felt the rough bristle. Could do with a shave; he wasn’t as young as he used to be. His leg started to bounce and his shoulders hiked up higher towards his ears. It had been so long, he could hardly even remember the last time.
Stretching his arms over the back of the small two-seater, relaxing his muscles, he set his knees firmly apart, taking up as much space as he could. Act as if, repeated like a mantra.
Already he felt better. A tingle of excitement returned to his body – a tingle he had forgotten even existed. A smile started to spread across his face and he sensed a ghost of his former self begin to settle. For the first time in a long time he felt in control.
When Annie had entered the pub earlier that night, for a fleeting moment he’d thought she was someone else. It had hit him like a punch in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Beneath the rain-soaked red hood of her coat he’d caught a glimpse of her chocolate curls, her olive skin, and that familiar panic had started in his bowels and risen up through his chest, into his throat.
As the hood came down he saw the hair was more chestnut than chocolate, the skin more ivory than olive. It wasn’t her. Of course it wasn’t her. A snort escaped his nostrils.
“You alright?” Joe had stopped mid-sentence and was staring at Paul.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I thought I ate a bug.”
Joe carried on, nonplussed. Paul’s eyes followed the girl to the bar. A murmur of mischief electrified the air as grins and sideways glances were exchanged. Apart from staff, you didn’t get many females drinking in this haunt. Not ones that looked like her. He searched around for the unfortunate guy who’d brought her in; it was going to be a task keeping that one out of trouble. Around pretty ladies, the punters had a tendency to forget their manners.
The pub was in one of the converted arches under a railway line, the kind of place where you were safe as long as you were known. It wasn’t a palace but at least there was carpet and not sawdust on the floor. There was a railway theme throughout, which showed at least sometime, someone must have cared. Victorian pictures had been strategically positioned on the walls and some piece of polished brass machinery was on display behind the bar. Plaques celebrating past winners of the annual darts tournament hung in pride of place.
The charge-hand, a bear of a woman fondly referred to as “the Ayatollah” when out of earshot, ran a tight ship. As well as could be, the place was clean, the pints wet. No one stepped too far out of line for fear of bringing the wrath of the Ayatollah upon themselves. Paul had never been on the receiving end but he had heard the strangled scream, like razor wire, that sometimes escaped her throat. There wasn’t much in life that could intimidate Paul, but the choked cry from the pit of the stomach of a woman enraged curdled his blood.
Joe was one of those who had stepped out of line. Only the week before he had incurred wrath and received a lifetime ban. Paul raised his eyes to the “Barred” list behind Joe’s head as Joe regaled him with the story. Big Malky – barred 6 weeks. Jim the Tim – barred 1 month. Moonman – barred for life. Gillian Toner – barred for life. Joe Toner – barred for life.
“You see that?” Joe pointed proudly to the line drawn through his name. “Can’t keep me barred. It’s bad for business, see. This is my pub. Everyone knows this is Joe Toner’s pub. I go elsewhere, the whole posse’s gonna follow.”
Paul, half listening, nodded in agreement.
In the background a group of men circled the girl, who had rested her arms on the bar-top. Paul’s own primal instincts awakened with vigour. He watched as she squirmed, lips pursed, turning her head from their howls and jibes. He began to think that maybe she was alone, had wandered off the path.
“I mean, it wasn’t even me this time,” Joe went on. “It was the wife. Fattie over there threw away the dregs of her drink at close and wouldn’t replace it. The wife was over the bar trying to batter her. I couldn’t keep control of the wife – barred for life. That’s what happens when you put a woman in charge. They take it personal.”
Paul continued to watch over Joe’s shoulder as the drama began to unfold at the bar. One of the younger regulars was moving in for the kill. Leaning one arm on the bar beside her, he was sliding closer. Turning her back, head down, the girl was trying to ignore him. The more she ignored, the more he pressed. The others waited, their appetites whetted. The Ayatollah watched in amusement.
Beside Paul, Joe was delving deep into his trouser leg. “I swear, one of they wee bastards’s dipped my pockets.”
“It’s OK, Joe, I’m buying.” Pau
l patted him on the shoulder and moved towards the bar.
Just before he reached it the girl turned and pushed through the group. The men laughed. Pulling her hood up over her head, she ran out into the rain.
Paul had left the pub a few minutes later and found her huddled in a bus shelter, the vinegary smell of piss still potent through the lighter fragrance of the rain. He stood at a safe distance, to let her know he wasn’t a threat. He just wanted to find out if he could help her; he’d seen what had happened in the pub.
“There’ll be no more buses this time of night,” he told her.
Reluctant at first, she slowly became more receptive to the idea of help.
Paul managed to hail a taxi. He opened the door to let the girl get in first, then slipped in after her. Her red hood clung to her head; black mascara ran down her cheeks. As they drove towards her flat, her sobbing stopped. She told him her name was Annie.
“Mark.” He held out his hand. She didn’t need to know his real name.
They had to travel across town; Paul wasn’t looking forward to the journey home. When they pulled up, he paid, then jumped from the taxi, across a foot-wide swirling torrent and onto the pavement. His upturned collar offered futile shelter from the rain. Annie followed behind him.
“Right, you be careful now.”
She smiled, her key clicking into the lock. “Thanks again, Mark. I didn’t know what to do, it was the wrong bus… I thought when I saw the light in the pub… Thank you for helping me.”
The door opened, warmth and safety beckoned. He turned to go.
She hesitated, then called him back. “If you want to come up and dry off, wait until the rain eases…”
Paul, not sure of the wisdom of it, shrugged his shoulders and followed her in. Annie took off her dripping coat and handed him a towel before disappearing next door. He spread himself on the chintz couch and forced himself to relax. She returned a few minutes later in an oversized sweatshirt and jogging trousers, her long hair damp and beginning to frizz. She flopped self-consciously onto crossed legs on the floor, facing Paul. She seemed anxious; her eyes darted around the room, never settling on Paul, yet wherever she looked, he could tell she was watching him.
He took a cigarette out of his packet. “Do you mind?”
She fussed to find an ashtray and in its absence handed him a floral saucer from the cabinet. He lit up.
“This place was my grandmother’s,” she explained. “I’ve not had the chance to redecorate yet.”
In her own habitat he could see more clearly who Annie was. Porcelain, just like her grandmother’s tea set; smooth, delicate, unblemished. Vulnerable in a way that was different from the girls he was used to. Her face twinkled with youth and optimism; too fresh to have known heartache. She was sweet. And sweetness wasn’t his type. He thought about leaving. But she offered him a drink. And he never turned down a drink.
The ice cubes in his glass clinked against the side; the swirl of purple juice mixed with the spirit burned his throat as he swigged it down. He talked to her; she reminded him of someone from long ago. From a time when he was a better person. For a while he imagined he was again.
Time passed; she moved onto the couch beside him. He could feel her small, cold hands stroking his arm.
“What’s your tattoo of?” Her voice was too guarded to be playful, like there was some kind of performance going on for his benefit.
He rolled up his T-shirt sleeve, revealing the full glory of it. His hand massaged the muscle on which the tattoo was drawn.
“Lena? Is that your girlfriend?”
“No. She was a Russian hooker I met. It only lasted till morning but it was the most meaningful relationship I ever had.”
Annie shrank away, her cheeks rosy.
“For a hundred quid,” Paul went on, “she could make all your dreams come true. Took me around the world that night and in the daylight she was gone. True love; pure poetry.”
“Really?”
“No.” He laughed. “She was just some tart. I was young and very, very drunk when I got this. I was thinking of adding in ‘Don’t’ – make it more up to date.”
“Where is she now?” Annie asked quietly.
He dissembled indifference. “No idea. It’s a good souvenir, though. Don’t you think?”
Covering it up, he put it out of his mind.
Annie moved in closer.
He savoured the blush of her cheeks, watched the powerful vein pumping in her neck, listened to her breath; gentle, bleating. So full of life. It had been a long time since he’d had such close contact with a member of the opposite sex. At one time he might have reached his arm around her, and it would have been the most natural thing in the world. But his arm lay limply at his side; he was always conscious of his movements now.
He reached instead for the glass, aware that he was draining his while she sipped politely on hers. Annie had left the bottle of Smirnoff on the table so he poured himself another half glass. He didn’t even bother to dilute this one. The first few swigs made his teeth grit at the potency of the alcohol, but he had a taste for it.
Her hand crawled up his chest, resting on his face, her fingers tracing the line of the scar that stretched from forehead to cheek. She reached in and kissed him, her mouth tasting vaguely of mint, her skin soft like velvet. He kissed her back, aware of his own taste of vodka and cigarettes. There was a look of something like revulsion on her face as she pulled away. It didn’t bother him.
“It’s nice to find someone interesting. Someone real,” she said, sitting back.
“Is that what I am? I’m real?” He laughed. “I’ve been called a lot of things in my life but real isn’t one of them.”
Annie laughed too, not sure of the joke.
“Real because I’m a loser?”
He thought for a while before twisting down the collar of his T-shirt to reveal a bluish-grey hollow love heart tattooed scrappily on the back of his neck.
“Do you like this one?”
Annie reached over and inspected the amateurish effort, obscured by the stray hairs left behind after a poor haircut.
“Did you do that one yourself?”
“My cellmate Joe did it for me.”
Paul remembered the burn of the hot needle dipped in ink and waited for Annie’s reaction.
“So you’re a criminal?”
He gave a short laugh. “A bona fide outlaw in your house, and what’re you going to do about it?”
Her nervous giggle tinkled like a little bell. It faded. He let the silence linger a little too long. His gaze grew stony. She smiled again, embarrassed. Paul got the impression that smile had been used before to get her out of difficult situations, but he wasn’t going to let her off so lightly.
“No, really. What are you going to do about it?”
He’d spent too long inside. He’d forgotten how to be around people.
“It’s getting late,” she whispered uneasily and stood up from the couch.
It was time to leave alright.
As he stood, there was a rush of blood to his head; the room tilted and his words slurred. He could hazily make out Annie, her glare seething and angry, her whole body transformed. She was no longer a lost little girl.
“Look at you.” Her words were tinny and distant. “You can barely get off the couch.”
He stumbled. She was right. When had he got so wasted? He hung in the air, suspended in motion.
Her bony fingers began to prod him back into his seat. He found himself inexplicably compliant. His vision blurred. For a moment he went blank. Then he felt her cold hand slap his face.
“Paul?”
When had he told her his real name?
“Paul!” She slapped him again. His eyes fought to open.
“Paul, you need to sleep now. I think you should rest.” Her
voice was soothing and disarmed him completely.
“I don’t want to rest. You can rest when you’re dead.” He wasn’t even sure if he spoke aloud or if the heavy sleep had already fallen.
Lena was with him. It wasn’t that he could see her clearly standing before him. It was more like an impression of her; her smell, her warmth caressing his senses, making him glow. He could feel her body moving beside him. Like smoke, she dispersed and formed around him; too fragile to hold on to, yet so real it was hard to believe it was only a dream. He could hear her laugh, the sound so vivid it must have been emblazoned on his soul. Her voice like crystal.
Her laugh became shrill. Became a scream.
He hallucinated flesh, blood and tears.
Chapter Two
Darkness engulfed him. He had no sense of where he was, only that he was in pain. His head was pounding and his kidneys ached from too many nights trying to drink himself into oblivion. He badly needed to piss. As he tried to stand up, his shoulders were jerked violently back. A ripping pain tore through his wrists. It took him a few moments to realise he was tied up. Upright on a chair, hands and feet bound to its arms and legs, like a man waiting for execution.
Lena? The gag in his mouth choked him, his voice an incoherent muffle. His eyes blinked with starry confusion. No, not Lena. Anna… or Annie.
He could feel his airway closing. His muscles seized in agony as they relived past imprisonments: the classroom cupboard of his primary school; his six-by-twelve-foot jail cell; and, by far the worst, the dark boot of a battered Ford Mondeo. No chink of light for comfort there, no hope of escape, just warm, stale air that wouldn’t fill his lungs no matter how deeply he breathed. Cramping limbs. Stabbing fear in the bowels. A living corpse at his own funeral procession; only the prayer that when it happened it would be swift and painless.
Spasms of panic started to override his ability to reason. He tried to shout but his voice caught on the alcohol-laced saliva that had built up in his mouth. As he doubled over in a fit of coughing, the restraints pulled tight against his skin. His heaving breaths throbbed in his ears. The space grew steadily smaller. He struggled for air, fog clouded his brain and he fought to retain consciousness. The sharp, frantic snorts tearing his nostrils stopped. He felt his chest muscles loosen and his body went limp. He was met by the sound of silence. That scared him most of all. When trapped in the boot of the car, he had listened to the noise of the traffic, counted the turns, the bumps in the road. It had soothed him. While he could still hear the traffic he knew he still had a chance. It was the silence that told him he’d reached the end of the road.
S K Paisley Page 1
