Fly In Fly Out

by Evie Snow

  “Yeah. But you better tell me the full story soon. The thought of you getting hurt . . .” Stephen rasped, shocking her completely by suddenly returning her hug, pulling her so tight against him that she felt her ribs creaking.

  “I promise.” Jo sagged with relief, resting her forehead against his until the sound of breaking dishware had her unceremoniously pushing Stephen away and running for the house.

  “Amy? Stephen, stay outside,” she ordered before she opened the door.

  He started after her. “Like hell.”

  “No! It’s only Amy and Mum in there. I don’t want this getting any messier than it needs to be and I need you here just in case Dad comes.” She paused long enough to see Stephen had registered what she was saying before racing inside.

  Jo found Amy in her tiny kitchen, her back to the room, gripping the counter with white-knuckled hands. Shirley was standing in front of the open back door, ever-present cigarette clamped between her fingers, lips pressed into a thin severe line. Unlike Amy, she was perfectly done up in ironed jeans and a pink blouse, her hair neatly braided. The only things that gave away her less-than-calm state were a few flecks of black where she’d botched her mascara and the way the hand holding the cigarette was shaking.

  “Well, Amy?” Shirley demanded, voice hard.

  “Mum, we were doing this to help you. Please calm down,” Amy pleaded.

  “Oh, and here’s the cavalry. Right lot of geniuses the two of you are.” Their mum rounded on Jo, no doubt having heard her feet pounding through the house. “Think you’re a pair of avenging angels, don’t you? Don’t think I don’t know this is your idea, Jo.” Shirley curled her lip in disgust.

  “Yeah, it was.” Jo ignored Amy’s stunned expression. “So stop taking it out on Amy.”

  “I’m not taking anything out on anyone.” Shirley turned and tapped her ash onto the mossy paving stones just outside the back door. “I just wish you’d back off. I never asked for any of this. I’ve told you before to leave it alone.” She gave Jo such a look of tired disappointment, Jo felt herself morphing back into a five-year-old being told off by her mum for trying to stop her dad from hitting her. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Her mum was supposed to be happy they wanted to help. Jo and Amy had been planning this, dreaming of this for years. Obviously, those dreams had been just that. Dreams.

  “Well, maybe I don’t want to leave it alone anymore, Mum,” Jo said, her own weary disappointment tinting her voice. “You can’t want to live in that house with him. I saw the way you were moving months ago. He hasn’t stopped all these years, has he? He’s been exactly the same. Getting drunk every night and—”

  “What, Jo?” Shirley Blaine’s smoke-raspy voice overrode hers. “What exactly has he been doing? How would you bloody well know? It’s not like you ever come to see me. It’s not like you’ve ever indicated you care. If Amy here”—she jerked her head in Amy’s direction—“didn’t call me and visit every now and then, I’d think you two had dropped off the face of the earth.” She took a long, harsh pull on her cigarette and looked from Jo to Amy and back again, her hard expression partially obscured by her exhaled smoke.

  “It’s not like we don’t try to help you, Mum. We tried years ago. We’re trying now. I can’t believe you’d want to stay with him!” Jo felt tears prickle behind her eyes. There was no way in hell she’d shed them. Shirley hadn’t seen her cry since she was a kid, and she wouldn’t now.

  “Well, you bloody well should,” Jo’s mother said sharply. “You gave up the right to have a say when you left home with Amy. You gave up the right to judge me or your bloody father. He was heartbroken when you girls left.”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. He was the reason we left, Mum!”

  “Well, believe it, sunshine. Because you’ve got a lot to learn.”

  “Like what? How to let your kids get the shit kicked out of them every other day? How to defend a total bastard? He almost killed us years ago. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  “You’ve always overreacted,” Shirley said coolly.

  “I’ve got reason.” White-hot rage surged through Jo. “Can you guarantee he’s not on his way right now with that gun of his to take potshots at Amy or me because of what you’ve said? Because I’m not so sure. Actually, I’ve got half a mind to call the cops just to make sure someone’s here when he turns up.”

  At this, her mother’s face went white. “You wouldn’t.”

  “I bloody well would. You might think you’re covered, but what about Amy? Stephen—”

  “Stephen?” Shirley asked, but Jo ignored her.

  “And me, hey? What happens if he shoots one of us? You’re responsible, and I’ll bloody well testify against you if there’s a charge that would stick. My god! I can’t believe how much shit Amy and I put up with over the years because we were worried about you, but you couldn’t care less, could you? Could you?”

  It had all been for nothing. She and Amy had been trying to protect Shirley for absolutely nothing, had been almost killed trying to protect her years before for nothing. She stalked across the kitchen until she was towering over Shirley, who didn’t budge an inch.

  “Whadya going to do, girl? Hit me?” her mother asked sarcastically, blowing smoke in Jo’s face.

  “Why not? You seem to like it.” Jo felt the urge to grab the woman in front of her by the shoulders and shake her until she admitted she was wrong. She wanted the mother she remembered from when she was little, but it looked like that woman was long since gone. How had she and Amy not seen that?

  Stephen’s voice calling her name from outside spun Jo around and had her mother turning red in the face. There was the sound of a car pulling up in the drive, and Amy ran for the front door, her feet pounding over the floorboards.

  “Who is that?” Shirley demanded.

  Jo sneered. “Stephen Hardy. If you’d bothered to know anything about my life, you’d know we’re together. He’s waiting out front. I thought we might need his help, since you gave Dad Amy’s address.”

  “Dad’s here, Jo,” Amy called frantically.

  “I need to pack my things then.” Their mum dropped her lit cigarette on the kitchen floor and pushed past Jo on her way to Amy’s spare bedroom.

  The rage in Jo’s system, combined with a healthy dose of dread, left her light-headed as she ran towards the door where both Stephen and Amy were watching her dad get out of the battered old Hilux in Amy’s driveway.

  * * *

  Ken Blaine stalked up Amy’s driveway, looking nothing like the genial guy Stephen had known, trusted, and respected since he was a kid.

  The older man’s usually ironed shirt and shorts were wrinkled and stained and he wasn’t wearing any shoes. He hadn’t shaved, and his face had such a black look of fury that it distorted his features to the point he was near unrecognizable. Stunned at the transformation, Stephen barely noticed Jo stepping in front of him as Ken advanced on them.

  “You. Fuckin’. Bitch!” Ken roared, his pupils pinpricks in his bloodshot eyes, his voice high-pitched. Almost eerie.

  “Amy, get in the house,” Jo ordered quietly. “Now.” When Amy didn’t move, she shoved her sister towards the door, not once taking her eyes off Ken.

  He screeched over the top of her, “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill—”

  Stephen’s shock dissolved in a blinding instant, pure rage setting in as he shoved Jo behind him. “You’ll what, Ken?”

  Ken stumbled when he saw Stephen, the mad expression on his face suddenly warring with shock and a sickening congeniality.

  “Stephen?” he asked faintly as he immediately straightened, pulling his shirt down and running his hand over the scraggly stubble on his chin. “Ah, how—how’s your dad, mate?”

  “Good,” Stephen replied, arms crossed over his chest. “He’ll be a sight better when he never sees you again.”

  “What?” Ken’s voice rose. “Now, mate. Mate, don’t be hasty. This is just a misunderst
anding between my girls and me, alright? Every family has a few misunderstandings every now and then. You know how women are.” He tried a conspiratorial smile, but it failed in the face of Stephen’s stare.

  “No, I don’t, mate. I think you better explain what you mean by misunderstandings,” Stephen said in a lethally quiet voice as he took a step forward to the edge of Amy’s porch. The enormity of what Jo had kept from him, what his family had allowed to happen, what he could have fixed if someone had told him the truth was a cacophonic roar in his ears.

  Ken held up his hands and took a step back. “That’s what I’m trying to do here. Jo, love? Jo, you tell him. This is just a misunderstanding. Why don’t you tell Stephen here so he can go and we can sort it out?” Ken asked, his voice oozing amiability as he looked at Jo with a fake smile on his lips and murder in his eyes.

  “Fuck you,” Jo snarled.

  “Now, that’s not very nice.” Ken’s fake smile slipped until it was just a show of yellow teeth. “I hear you were going to go have a word with some mutual friends of ours about misunderstandings we’ve had in the past. I think it would be helpful if you told Stephen that they weren’t serious, or you and I might have to discuss this later.”

  Ken’s threat was blatant and no one missed it. Stephen caught Jo’s waist in a viselike grip as she launched herself at her father.

  “Jo. Stop,” Stephen ordered, but it was like she didn’t hear him. “Jo!” Stephen’s bellow in her ear finally got her attention.

  She stopped struggling and stood in his arms, eyes trained on Ken with years of pent-up rage pouring out of them.

  “Nice had nothing to do with it, you bastard,” Jo hissed. “Nice stopped the day you tried to kill us fourteen years ago. Nice stopped when you put a bullet in my goddamn thigh the other day, and nice stopped when you called my house threatening to finish the job. By the way, that wasn’t me who answered the phone, Dad.” She spat the word. “It was Rachael Hardy.”

  “Kill you?” Stephen roared as he let Jo go and pushed her out of the way. “You telling me your dad shot you on our farm?” Forgetting his previous efforts to prevent a physical confrontation, he launched himself at Ken.

  Jo’s boots scraped on the boards of the porch as it was now her turn to hold him back.

  “Now, mate. I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick, here. You know me. I’ve known you since you were a kid. I don’t know what Jo here’s told you, but you surely couldn’t believe any of it. You’ve known me for years.” Ken spoke quickly, voice rising in his panic as he held up his hands to ward Stephen off.

  “Ken, that just makes this worse. My family trusted you. Let me go, Jo,” Stephen snarled.

  “Can’t.” Jo’s voice was strained as she fought to hold him back. “He’s not worth you getting done for assault. Can’t . . . let . . . you . . .”

  “Screw that! He hurt you. You just said he’s the one that shot you!”

  “Yeah, one of many times he’s bloody well hurt me,” Jo wheezed in his ear. “He’s still not worth it.”

  “Now, mate. Calm down. How about we have a talk about this man to man?” Ken said, backing up, stumbling over the uneven bricks in Amy’s driveway.

  “He didn’t shoot anyone.” Shirley Blaine’s raspy voice came from the house, and Jo and Stephen temporarily ceased their struggle to watch her wheeling a black overnight case through the front door. She stopped in front of them, surveying the scene with a hand on one hip, bored expression on her face.

  “If he didn’t, who did?” Jo demanded.

  “Me. I didn’t mean to hit you, but you bloody well deserved it.” The woman said the words so casually she could have been talking about her favorite brand of laundry detergent.

  “What?” Jo let go of Stephen, her hands dropping limply to her sides.

  “Mum?” Amy cried from where she’d been standing just inside the house, keeping tabs on what was going on but staying out of Jo’s way.

  “Just get the message, will you?” Shirley barked. “If you’d left well enough alone, me and your dad would be happy. Instead, you get him upset every time you try and help”—she sneered the word at Jo, who flinched—“and I have to deal with it.” She turned away and wheeled her bag past Ken, up the driveway to the Hilux, hoisting it onto the back.

  Jo and Amy stood in stunned silence, mouths open in shock.

  Ken acted as if Shirley hadn’t said a thing. Instead, he kept his eyes focused on Stephen while nervously running a hand up and down over his shirt.

  “I give up,” Jo said faintly, her voice thick with an avalanche of shock and resignation. “That’s it. Screw the both of you. I give up. Mum—no, Shirley—you and Ken are welcome to each other. Perfect bloody match.” She sneered in disgust and walked back into the house.

  Amy, openly crying, looked at Shirley and then Ken. “Screw you both.” Her voice was waterlogged, but her jaw was firm as she followed in Jo’s wake.

  Stephen waited until he heard the creak of Jo and Amy’s feet on the floorboards fade before rounding on Ken Blaine. One thought played over and over, getting louder and louder until it was a deafening scream. How had the Hardy family not known? How had they not known? They’d paid the man’s salary for years. His dad, Rob, treated Ken like a good mate. Jesus, if Rob felt even half the guilt and anger Stephen was feeling right now, he would be shattered.

  “Leave,” he said in a low, furious voice, the word containing everything he was feeling.

  “Mate, come on,” Ken began. “You know how women exaggerate. I’ll just go in and have a talk with the girls and—”

  “Shut up, Ken. If you ever, ever come near either of them again—and that goes for her too”—he jabbed a finger at Shirley, who was waiting in the passenger seat of Ken’s Hilux, looking bored—“I’ll . . .”

  “You’re overreacting here,” Ken cut in. “No need for threats. I know you’ll probably want to tell your dad . . .”

  “No,” Stephen barked, voice shaking with repressed rage. There was no way he’d burden his dad with this. Rob Hardy would never forgive himself if he found out he’d hired a woman-beater.

  Instead, Stephen would hit Ken where it hurt. Jo had said her dad’s job was the most important thing to him, so that’s what Stephen would take away. It wasn’t enough, it didn’t feel enough, but short of murdering the man, it was all he could do.

  “No, I’m not going to say a thing. What’s going to happen is that neither of you are going to try to contact Jo or Amy again unless you’re on your hands and knees begging them to forgive you. You’re going to go back to the farm, hand in your notice, and be off my family’s property within the week. No, fuck that, within the next twenty-four hours. I don’t care where you go or what you tell Dad and Clayton just as long as you’re gone.” He thought quickly, remembering how manic Ken had looked when he’d first rolled up, how he’d threatened Jo. “And if you ever, god help you, ever try to threaten or hurt Jo or Amy again, I’ll bear witness to your wife admitting to shooting Jo. Then I’ll get Rachael to add her experience with you on the phone to the mix, and put it together with whatever Jo’s already got on you. Your life would get pretty miserable pretty quick. If the cops don’t get you, your soon-to-be ex-mates at home will. I’ll see to it. Got that?”

  Ken nodded, his face ashen beneath the broken capillaries spidering over his nose and cheeks.

  “Then fuck off,” Stephen snarled, moving forward, wanting, needing Ken to disagree with him, to put up a fight so he could work off the rage boiling through him. But Ken had the brains to see that Stephen was itching to plaster him over Amy’s driveway and beat a hasty retreat to the truck, his tires screeching as he reversed it out into the street and sped off.

  Over the sound of the engine, Stephen could hear him yelling something through Shirley’s open window but resisted the urge to yell back. Instead, he stood clenching and unclenching his fists on the porch and waited until the need to rip off someone’s head faded. How did he get himself into yet an
other situation where a woman wasn’t telling him what was going on? Worse, how had he not known what was going on? How had Jo not told him?

  * * *

  Amy fluttered around the kitchen, doing a whole lot of nothing while silent tears ran down her face. Jo was sitting on one of the kitchen chairs, her head on the table as she tried to convince herself the pain in her chest wasn’t unshed tears. It was just an impending heart attack. Probably genetic. The old man’s ultimate revenge.

  “So you think Stephen would like a cup of tea?” Amy asked in a small voice after a while. She was holding a pink-and-green striped teacup in one hand and a dangling tea bag in the other like some demented Gothic housewife. Her mascara had formed black rivulets down her cheeks, and her fine blond hair was still sticking up at all angles.

  “Stephen? Oh god! Stephen.” Realizing she’d left him outside with her father, Jo stood up abruptly, knocking her chair over as she sprinted to the front door.

  She found Stephen standing on the porch, shoulders rigid.

  “Stephen?” She rested a hand on his shoulder. When he flinched away, she inwardly cringed. She’d been so caught up in her own misery, she’d just abandoned him out here with Ken.

  “What?”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Don’t I need to be asking you the same thing?” he demanded roughly. “Sounds like a lot’s been going on that I don’t know a thing about. When were you going to tell me, Jo? It wasn’t like I didn’t ask enough.”

  “Today actually.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Because a good time would have been, oh, I don’t know, before you girls had to leave your home. Or maybe around when the doctor was stitching up your leg. Or hey, what about when your dad—”

  “Ken,” Jo interrupted curtly.

  “Okay, when Ken threatened to kill my sister on the phone, thinking she was you? How about then? You lied to me, Jo.”