The Square (Shape of Love Book 2)

by JA Huss

  This was David’s gun. He should have had the chance himself. If ye find this and if ye give a shite about this one, you’ll put him out of his fuckin misery. The girl’s a good enough shot from distance. Point blank should be easy. Wish I could see ye now Fortnight but had someplace else to be. Don’t worry brother. Soon.

  “Fok is this, man?” I ask, shoving the paper back at him.

  He hangs his head. Says nothing. Christine reaches across me and grabs it from my hand. Reads it as well. Whispers, “Brasil.”

  “Fuck!” Danny shouts again, standing, looking for something to punch.

  None of this makes sense. None of it. Not a fokken thing.

  Lars. Lars knows something. Lars has answers.

  “Lars,” I say, reaching up for his chin. Weakly, he tries to retract from me. “Lars, man, let us help you. Look, bru, we’ve got some shit to work out, obviously.” I smile a wee bit and try for a laugh. Not successfully, but I try. “But let’s just get you some attention right now and then let’s unpack some of this nonsense, yeah? Bru?”

  Again, I try to tilt his chin to get him to look at me and again he tries, with strained effort, to avoid my touch. When I finally manage to take him with both hands and lift his head up, I understand why he resists. Sort of. I don’t know what happened exactly, but his jaw appears somehow glued or wired shut, and the movement of his neck compels him to swallow. Forces him to. I see his Adam’s apple bob, its laryngeal musculature tighten then loosen.

  And suddenly, he begins convulsing. His body, strapped to the chair, spasms uncontrollably. Froth begins spilling from his still-clenched teeth and though clearly beaten, ruptured, and without strength of his own, he is now adrenalized into agonizing motion against his will.

  … if ye give a shite about this one, you’ll put him out of his fuckin misery.

  “What the fuck is happening?” Christine shouts.

  I cannot tell if the wrist and ankle guards that hold him in place are creating new lacerations as he struggles or if they were already there, but the brutality of watching him strive and fail to flail free is almost too much to bear. Even for me.

  The gun that had been placed under his hand—David’s gun, I reckon—falls to the floor. But only for a moment. Only for less than a second. Because almost before it even lands, I snatch it up.

  And I place the barrel against my poor, dear baby bru’s temple and pull the trigger.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE - CHRISTINE

  There is no such thing as silence in the moments after a gun goes off. Especially indoors. So that’s not what I hear in the wake of Lars’ brains being splattered against a wall.

  It’s an echo of silence. Some facsimile of silence. Laced with ringing and scented with blood.

  “I don’t understand,” Eliza says. “What’s going on?”

  “What the fuck just happened?” Brenden adds.

  I turn away from the remains of Lars and don’t know who to look at first. I don’t have any answers for them. I don’t really understand it myself. But I choose Charlie to focus on. And for some reason I say, “Payback.” Because it’s the only thing that makes sense.

  “Who in bloody hell is David?” Russell says, having stepped forward and grabbed up the note.

  Danny opens his mouth to say something but ends up just giving his head a slight shake.

  Which means: Leave us now. We don’t need you.

  And somehow Russell hears our secret language. Understands it immediately. Because he says, “Right then. Let’s go.” And turns away.

  Eliza follows immediately. Like she can’t get out of this room fast enough. Brenden turns too. But Charlie and I are still locked together with our eyes. He holds out his hand and says, “Come with me, Christine.”

  And I hear his secret language in that moment. His hidden words. But even if I couldn’t read him, it wouldn’t matter. I can see it all in his eyes.

  What the fuck have they gotten you into, Christine?

  I don’t want to go with him. I can’t go with him. Because it’s me who’s gotten us all into this, not them.

  “Go with your family,” I say. “We need—”

  I stop because Russell is talking out in the hallway. On the phone, I realize. Has to be with Theo. Talking quickly in ruptured sentences that make no sense. Telling him—or trying to tell him—exactly where we stand.

  Then he says, “Theo, brother. What’s that noise? What’s going on?”

  And it’s the tone of his voice, not even words, that makes the rest of us in this room turn to look at the door leading out into the hallway.

  “Theo?” Russell says again. “Theo!” he yells.

  He panics. I can only see half of his face through the doorway, but I don’t need to see more. Because he puts the phone on speaker and we hear it all go down in real time.

  More gunshots ring through the echo of silence after Lars.

  Theo yelling and then…

  … and then Andra screams.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO - DANNY

  There is no discussion after Andra’s scream. No silent conversations necessary either. We leave Lars up in that room. Feet pounding down the stairs in a rush. Running as a group across the lawn, back into the woods to the vehicles. I stay with Alec and Christine this time and Brenden and Charlie go alone.

  Inside the car there is true, true silence. The drive is long and Christine is sitting between Alec and me in the back seat as Russell takes curves at breakneck speeds. He flies through roundabouts like a maniac and Eliza jostles back and forth next to him with one hand braced on the door and the other flat on the dashboard.

  We have all come to the same conclusion.

  This is no rescue mission.

  Whatever happened at the cottage is over. Finished. Can’t be undone.

  All we are doing now is making our way back to see the fallout.

  The repercussions of all the things we’ve done, all the people we’ve crossed, all the debts we owe.

  By the time we pull into the cottage driveway all the adrenaline has drained away. Our collective rush into the house is just a facade.

  We know it’s over.

  The front door is open and it feels like winter has returned for one last ferocious hurrah because the wind bangs it against the doorjamb like a very bad omen.

  Eliza pushes Russell out of her way and enters first. Stops in the small foyer, mouth open as she takes in the scene.

  The rest of us enter behind her, Alec pushing his way past me and Christine to stand next to the mother of his child.

  Tables and chairs are overturned.

  Windows are broken and the wind whips in from outside, blowing the once-quaint curtains.

  “Andra!” Eliza yells. “Baby! Where are you?”

  “Theo?” the brothers call.

  But silence is our only answer.

  They are gone.

  EPILOGUE - ALEC

  There is nothing in life that cannot be conquered.

  Not even Death.

  Except that is not true. Death, as it turns out, is unconquerable.

  She remains undefeated.

  I am still glad it was me who took Lars’ life. As opposed to someone else. For all I could not do for him in life, I owed him that much in death.

  But watching him die by my hand was not as I had expected it to be. Because my hand was forced. The choice was not entirely mine. And seeing his candle snuffed out felt very much like glancing into a crystal ball and seeing my own fate. He looked like me. He sounded like me. He was of me. The same spring that produced his lifeblood also produced mine.

  The one thing I must strive to remember—now more than ever—is while the fortunate man will say, “Fate is kind,” and the unfortunate man, “Fate is cruel,” the truth is it is neither.

  It is fate.

  It is not personal.

  To take on the turns of events in my life as somehow particular to me is to endow them with dominion over my mind. And right now, I cannot allow that to hap
pen. Because so many questions remain unanswered.

  Is there a version of my story in which I reflect back and consider that if I had shown a greater interest in Lars, none of this would have happened? Of course. Is there a version that traces even further back in which I do not steal my father’s irreplaceable diamond and none of the events that led to today are set in motion? Certainly. But the more meaningful question is: If none of those things had happened as they did, would I be with Danny and Christine right now? In the way that we are together? Would we have bonded as we have? Survived as we have? Loved as we do?

  I may never know.

  But it is a wasteful expenditure of energy to consider, because I cannot change the past. The past is, by definition, past. I can only learn from it and prepare. And so, as I look out the window of the suite, I consider what education I have now gained.

  As a child, Lars, my baby brother, was not given a chance. I did not see that, just like Danny and Christine, he was born into chaos. Simply because his chaotic childhood was not marked by hunger and physical abuse does not make it any less chaotic.

  And so, while I took care of Christine and Danny, protected them, because I could see they needed it and I needed them—it was mutually necessary, our relationship—Lars… Lars needed me too. And I needed to be there for him. I couldn’t see that at the time because I hadn’t yet learned as much, but it makes it no less true. And I know it now.

  I am grateful it was me.

  It should have been me in the end.

  It was the least I could do.

  And what of the future? I have a chance to have an impact on a new life. A new life that I learned I played a role in creating in the same environment where I ended another life.

  It is a new life that I only just met. A new life whose lifeblood is drawn from the very same spring. Just as my blood pumped through Lars, my blood pumps through the veins of the child called Andra. I couldn’t save Lars. I was too late. I can save Andra. And I will.

  I must forget the past now. Wholly. Entirely. There is no place for it here. I must forget the things I’ve done and the mistakes I’ve made. I believe I can. I have held onto it all long enough. It served its purpose. It brought me here. But now it is time to put it to rest.

  I can tell that Danny has already done this. He seems like the best of the Danny he once was and the promise of a Danny I don’t yet know. Whatever he and Christine shared between them in these last months has seemed to strengthen him. To empower him. His energy is palpable and resolute. The uncertainty about ‘us’ is gone and the sturdy, sexy, unshakeable Danny that I fell in love with is all I see. His resolve to punish this Brasil Lynch oke is like nothing I’ve watched him showcase before. Though I blame him for none of what’s happened, he’s taking it personally. I understand. In his situation, I might too.

  Christine, conversely, is not quite there yet. Not in the present. Still in the past. Not quite looking to the future. She wants to be. I can feel how much she wants to let go of the pain of everything and move on. But it will take more time. I don’t wish to compel her. I don’t want to force her hand or manipulate her. I’ve done enough of that, I decide. But I do want to encourage her. With Danny, I believe we’ll get there. We have to. We must.

  There is just the one last thing we have to do. This one last thing. And then… and then we can rest. We can sleep and make love and hold each other close and feel safe in our shared embrace.

  We can find a place where the sun shines every day.

  A place that’s in stark contrast to where we are right now.

  The rainy, foggy Belfast morning hangs heavy in the sky outside the hotel. Eliza, Russell, and the twins went mad, but I somehow managed to persuade everyone that the only chance we would have of retrieving Theo and Andra is to remain calm. It’s not a guarantee that we’ll succeed, but it can’t hurt to not become too emotional.

  I feel their emotion though. Myself. I do. I have a sense of what it is. I barely know the child, but I feel the tug. Partially because she is innocent and I know very few innocents any longer, and partially because she is mine.

  So many questions still to be asked. So many questions still to be answered. And if we have to set fire to the world and let it burn until the truth is all that’s left to be seen amidst the ashes, so be it.

  I hear the door open behind me. I don’t turn around. “Well?” I ask, still facing the window.

  “I couldn’t get inside, but I saw a couple of guys I recognize. It’s still his place.”

  “Still whose place?” Christine asks, coming from out of the shower. She smells of hotel soap and shampoo. Grapefruit and bergamot or some such.

  “Declan’s. Brasil’s uncle.”

  “Why are we going there again?” she asks.

  “We have to start someplace. I’m not waiting around for him to dictate what happens next.”

  “No,” I say. “No, indeed. We will decide that.”

  I hear him toss his leather jacket onto a chair behind me. I glance toward Christine, who wanders over in her towel. She lands by my side, puts her arm around me and I wrap mine around her in kind. I’m clad only in my trousers. Her damp hair drips water down my ribs. I give her a kiss on the head.

  “Alec?” she asks.

  “Hmmm?”

  “Do you think—?”

  “I have no idea, nunu.”

  She cocks her head. “You don’t even know what I was going ask.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  She considers this and then lets her cheek drop against my chest.

  Danny comes and stands on the other side of me. He places his hand on my back as well and stares out the window with us. I can feel the placement of their fingers. They are each resting on their lines. Their individual places in the ink.

  We all look out. Forward. Ahead.

  It’s silent for a long, long moment. Which is nice. Because I have a feeling it won’t be this way again for quite some time.

  Finally, Danny breaks the quiet, asking me, “What are you thinking about?”

  I let the question linger just enough to contemplate the many answers I could give, and then, before I let myself drift too deep into thought, I tell them both…

  “What happens next.”

  **********

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  Welcome to the End of Book Shit where we get to say anything we want about the book. Sometimes they’re long and wordy, sometimes they’re short and pithy. You never know. But they are never edited, so excuse our typos. And they are always last minute. Like… right before we upload. So don’t mind us if we ramble.

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  On a couple of different occasions in this book, characters comment that there’s “a lot to unpack.” That’s true for them as characters inside the story and that’s also true for the story itself. There is a lot to unpack. An amazing amount, if you will. And not just in terms of the plot and its complexities and revelations, but also in terms of the ideas we are finding ourselves examining as we write.

  The word “complicated” appears repeatedly in this book. This is not an accident.

  We are exploring betrayal, trust, hope, despair, forgiveness...

  We delve into how one processes loss and moves on from the past while taking a look at how one prepares for the future.

  What does it mean to be alive and how does one face death? The perpetual cycle of new life emerging while — sometimes simultaneously — other life is ending. For,
indeed, right now, at the very moment you are reading this, someone is dying.

  And someone else is being born.

  Someone is celebrating and someone is suffering.

  It is all happening now.

  And now.

  ... And now.

  So, yes, there’s a lot to unpack within the pages of these books. An amazing amount. Because, quite simply, there’s an amazing amount to unpack in every single moment of our lives. If we choose to unpack it.

  And so... What I’d like to talk about here is one of the less obvious but, I think, related and possibly more important ideas presented in this particular installment.

  At a certain point in this book Alec makes the observation that anger is essentially a substitute emotion. Which is to say it is a secondary one. It is the emotion that springs up to cover the true, prevailing emotion that gets masked underneath when the anger emerges.

  It is a shield.

  I’m not saying that it’s insincere. Or unnecessary. It can be very sincere and most often it is very, very necessary for survival. I’m just suggesting that it is, in fact, secondary. And frequently it only surfaces to protect us from feeling something more ... authentic. Usually because that authentic feeling is painful, or at least uncomfortable, and the anger takes what was an emotion we felt victimized by and transforms it into something we feel gives us power and energy.

  It seems like it’s active and not passive. It seems like it puts the ball in our hands and re-forms the vicissitudes of life into something that gives us the illusion of having control.

  And I would like to suggest that our anger is, in fact, just the opposite. It is not the powerful weapon that spares us hurt. It is actually the thing that keeps us in a perpetual cycle of pain and disallows us the chance to heal and grow.

  When anger overtakes whatever our hearts genuinely want to feel, we are suffocating that instinctive, gut-level reaction to the thing it is that we convince ourselves is “making us” angry. If it’s fear (fear of loss, fear of heartache, fear of pain, whatever), then we are denying ourselves the chance to confront that fear, inventory it, and learn how to deal with it so that in the future whatever it was that caused us to become afraid no longer holds its sway over us.