by Vi Carter
Connor, our half-uncle, who my father hated, was a savage with his fists. I grew up wanting personal lessons with him. I wanted to be as brutal with my fists as he was, but my father wouldn’t hear of it. I spent most of my childhood admiring Connor from a distance and feeling jealous of Shay for having a father who could kill with his fists.
“Frankie was his name,” I say after a moment.
Surprise lights up Jack’s eyes because I remembered Shay’s brother’s name.
I don’t think I will ever forget his name.
“Well, Shay found out that the uncharted territory that the fight club is on was sold.”
I wait.
“The buyer is this guy. He’s the one who paid to have Frankie killed.” Jack takes something out of his jacket pocket and walks across to me. A photo slides across the bar and stops at my drink. A picture of a man with shoulder-length hair and a very distinctive tattoo walks away from a building. The teardrop tattoo on his cheek and the ink along his neck should make finding him easy.
“Did you find him?” I ask and pick up my glass and take a drink.
Disappointment has Jack taking the photo back and tucking it into his pocket. “No. I was hoping you might recognize him.”
I did.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you.” There is enough truth in that sentence to make Jack believe me. “So now we are helping the North solve old crimes?” I ask and grin at Jack, who runs his hand across his face again.
I take my brandy with me and leave the bar. Moving across the room, I sit down on the couch. Jack returns to the unlit fireplace.
“It’s not about the North anymore, Richard. It’s about us Kings. Shay is a King and needs our help.”
I wish we were all that loyal and willing to help each other.
“Did you ask Father?”
Jack’s gaze darts away from me. I take a drink. Of course, he didn’t. He is afraid of dear old Father. I don’t blame him. Father has been hard on both of us. Jack got it a bit softer than I did.
When I look at Jack, all I see is our mother, and I’m like our father. Maybe that’s what makes Jack soft, our mother’s genes.
“You should ask him, Jack. I’m sure he won’t bite.”
Jack tilts his head from left to right in irritation. “I’m not afraid of him, Richard. I just can’t tell if he’s lying. So I won’t really know.”
Jack has me paying more attention. He has grown over the last three years. I take a drink. “I can’t tell either.” I’m honest for the first time in a long time. “But if you ask, and he knows something, Father will react. So look out for his reaction to your question.”
Jack walks away from the fireplace and sits on the edge of the seat across from me. His gaze is intense as he leans in towards me like we are sharing a secret. “Explain that to me.”
I pause. “When Father doesn’t like us getting close to the truth, he normally does something to turn us off that path. So keep note of his movements over the next few days after you question him. Your answer is normally in there somewhere.”
Jack sits back in the seat, and I finish my drink.
“You sound like you are speaking from experience.”
“I am.” I roll the glass in between my hands.
“What did you find out?”
“Be careful, Jack.”
My warning registers with Jack. He answers with a nod of his head. The silence stretches out. The quiet is a place I’m comfortable in.
Jack isn’t and sees the need to fill the silence with senseless babble. “So, how was the Czech Republic?”
I want someone to see past all my fucking lies. I stare at my brother, wanting to tell him the truth that for three years, I was locked away from the world.
A knock on the living room door has me holding all my words back. I get up from the couch as Davy half opens the door.
“Doc is here.”
A nod of my head has him leaving. “Thanks for coming by.” I compose myself as I turn to Jack.
He’s still sitting, watching me. “I’m dismissed?” He smirks, but it’s filled with annoyance.
Did he really want me to answer that? He still hasn’t moved, so apparently, he does. “I have other things that require my attention.”
He stands up. “You sound just like him.” His nostrils flare, and he walks past me. He’s speaking of Father.
I might look like him, sound like him, but I am not my father.
I am not a monster, and they would soon see that.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CLAIRE
I don’t move long after he leaves. My body soaks up all the warmth from the water, leaving it cold. I try to focus on the only color I can find in this box; gold and blue reflect on the water from the overhead lighting. My fingers touch the colors, and like an illusion, the color disappears. Burying my head into my shoulder, my mind wanders towards the darkness that seems to be growing with each passing moment I spend here. I’m not sure which is worse… having my captor watch me strip and bathe or knowing there is a dead man lying a few feet away from me.
My heartbeat ricochets around my chest as I come to two realizations. One is that I am not getting out of here, and two is that there is a high probability that I’m going to end up like Eamon. Shivers assault my skin. I need to get out of the water.
I survey the glass box for cameras and don’t see any. Did it really matter since he had seen me already? I get out of the tub, and the cold water runs off my body as I step out on the white floor. I take the towel from the free-standing rack, and wrap it around my body and keep my head tucked into my chest. Maybe, just maybe, I can pretend that I’m at home if I don’t see too far ahead of me. I nod, telling myself that is possible. I shift my stance, and the color red catches my eye. The red is so stark against the glass. I shouldn’t look, but I can’t stop myself as I turn fully toward Eamon.
He’s so still. There’s so much blood. I take a step towards his body. What if he’s alive? I keep walking, leaving wet footprints behind until I reach the glass wall. I lower myself slowly to the floor. His sandy hair is matted with blood. Through the blood streaks painted across the glass, I can make out the rest of his body.
My hand trembles as I reach up and knock on the glass. The knock is loud, or maybe it seems that way in the large space. I’m waiting for something to happen. Nothing does. I knock again—still nothing. My knuckles hurt as I start to knock rapidly on the glass, my heart beating as fast as my fists. “Eamon!” I call his name like he might rise up off the ground.
My body is hijacked as I reel away from the dead body. He’s dead. He’s gone, just like my parents. Only they weren’t recognizable. They had to be identified from their dental records. But I already knew it was them. I had heard them die. I had heard their screams, their pleas, their frantic cries.
I drag my legs up to my chest and rest my head on my knees. Flames dance behind my lids as I close my eyes. Tears stream down my face. “I’m sorry,” I whisper for the thousandth time.
I have a great belief in Karma. Sometimes the punishment that God hands out isn’t always clear, but with time, when bad things happen, you start to understand that you did something wrong in life, and this is God’s friend, Karma, who is getting you back.
This box is my punishment. Do I deserve to die in a box? It’s where we all end up in the end. I raise my head and glance around my glass coffin. My fingers rub the scar on my knee; the puckered skin a comforting reminder that everything has a beginning. The day I got the scar was the first time I saw the cruelty in my brother. It was the first time I saw him relish in others' pain. It was also the beginning of my pain.
My head shoots to the left, and I stand abruptly.
He’s back and with him is a man with a black bag. It reminds me of a Doctor’s bag. My mind skips and jumps to a small hand saw, a knife, any weapon that could fit in the bag and cause the deadliest amount of pain. My attention is drawn away from the bag as my captor takes out his phone, taps i
t a few times before turning to the man with the bag of tricks. I can’t hear them, and I’m tempted to touch my ears and wiggle my finger inside them to unclog any trapped water.
“Hello,” I speak quietly, and neither of the men turn to me. They continue to speak. They can’t hear me, and I can’t hear them.
I’m ready to speak again when my captor turns to me. Dread infiltrates my system, and I step back as both men move to the door.
The click of the door is loud, and the man with the bag steps in.
“I’m Doctor Hanlan, I’m going to take a look at your cuts.”
I don’t look at Doctor Hanlan; I’m watching my captor, who stays at the threshold. He doesn’t step across it, and that both terrifies me and also gives me some hope. He stays put as the door closes, and it’s just the Doctor and me.
“Help me,” I whisper, barely moving my lips.
“That’s what I’m here for.” He places his black bag on the table. He doesn’t remark about the smashed furniture, the smeared blood on the glass wall, the dead body, or the fact I’m in a glass box. Has he seen this all before? Is he here to finish me off? It didn’t make sense to bring me here just to let some man kill me.
My heart thrashes against my chest, and the blood roars in my ears. I’m staring at the Doctor, looking for some glimmer of hope.
His long black hair is tied at the nape of his neck. The more I study Doctor Hanlan, the more he doesn’t exactly look like a doctor. His thick black mustache makes me question his age. His hair coloring isn’t natural.
“If you want to lie on the bed, I can take a look.”
I tighten my hold on the towel. “I’ve been kidnapped,” I whisper and take a peek at my captor, who watches us. I’m hoping the doctor isn’t a killer. There has to be some good left in this world.
He turns to me with a handful of bandages and small white packages. No handsaw. “Claire, I’m here to clean your wounds.” His gray eyes are surprisingly soft.
“Am I the first?”
“The first what?” He appears a little more unsettled the longer we stand here. I want to tell him that his boss can't hear us, that if he wanted to help me, he could answer me.
“The first person you fixed up who was kept here against their will?” My nails ache from the death grip I have on the towel.
“Claire, do as the doctor says.”
I jump at his voice, and a sensation like a million spiders races across my back that has me moving to the bed. I lie down, keeping the towel around me, and close my eyes. He was listening the whole time.
“I’m going to examine your legs first.” The bed dips as Doctor Hanlan sits down. I try to control my breathing and remind myself that he isn’t going to kill me. Not today, anyway. I race through my arsenal of memories, and like some movie, I hit play.
I focus on red lips, red lips that widen and smile at me. “Claire, that’s too much maple syrup.”
“No such thing, mother.” I tease and squirt a little more, forcing her to remove the bottle from my hand.
“Did you finish your math last night?” My mother turns with a stack of pancakes that she places in the middle of the table. My dad reaches over his newspaper, takes one, and rolls it up before diving back into reading while eating.
“Yes, I did,” I answer, but my mother is still focused on my dad.
“George, no paper at the breakfast table.”
My dad folds up the paper and finishes the pancake.
“Good girl, Claire. Leonard!” my mother calls as my dad places two more pancakes on his empty plate. He squirts plenty of maple syrup and looks up at my mother, who is pouring out a glass of orange juice. With her back turned, my dad splashes loads of maple syrup onto my plate. He winks and sets the bottle down just as my mother turns around and walks to the table. She puts down two glasses of juice and shakes her head, looking at the door that leads out into the hallway. “Leonard!” She calls again, but I’m staring at my dad. His secret smile just for me is still there on his face.
“It’s only minor cuts. I’ve cleaned them with disinfectant wipes, but otherwise, there isn’t much I can do. Let’s take a look at your stomach.”
I’m pulled out of my memory. The smell of maple syrup fades. A tear runs down the side of my face, and I don’t wipe the tears away. I unfold my towel and allow the doctor to examine my stomach. My eyes are closed, but I feel like I’m in a room with a million people scrutinizing me. My eyelids flutter open, and I see my captor has moved along the side of the box. His dark gaze roams across my flesh, and every wound stings and burns like he physically touched me. My gut twists, and a new kind of fear has my breath growing shallow. Dark eyes snap up to mine, robbing me of everything.
“Only minor cuts. There is no need for bandages; they will heal fine on their own.”
I can’t look away from my captor.
“Your job is done, Doctor.” His deep voice rolls across my skin and releases me from the depths of his black gaze. I’m quick to drag the towel back over my naked body.
I don’t move as the doctor packs his bag. I don’t move as he leaves the glass box. I don’t move as both men leave the basement completely.
My early realization is confirmed again. I am not getting out of this box. Anyone who comes down here works for him.
Panic overrides my body, and I don’t fight; fear is choking me, and when my panic overflows, I grow numb.
Time passes in a blur before I get up and mechanically go to the wardrobe. The same white dress stares at me. I let the towel fall to the floor and rip one off the hangers before pulling the material on. I slam the door, the loud bang making me jump. My heart hammers as I glance around, expecting him to be there. But it’s just me and Eamon who hasn’t moved.
He’s dead.
I close the other door gently before walking back to the bed and sitting down. I can’t look away from the body. He’s really dead. Will they leave him here to rot? Will the stench fill the box until all I can smell is his rotting corpse?
My stomach lurches. The image of my parents assaults my mind. They had been burnt to a crisp. The phrase never really made sense to me until I saw both of them laid out. Their skin was completely gone. Muscle and tissue incinerated, their bones black.
“How did you get out of the house?” The Gardai had asked me. Leonard held me tight against his chest. “I carried her out.” His voice was calm, with a touch of happiness.
The Gardai looked back at our burnt down home. Fire engines still roared into the night sky, and the smoke was still in my mouth. I wanted to reach up and grip the Gardai’s coat. Maybe I had moved because Leonard tucked me against his chest, smothering my words smothering me.
“You are a lucky girl.” The Gardai placed his hat back on his head and faced us. Paramedics raced to Leonard and me, and for the first time, I could breathe. It had nothing to do with the oxygen mask that was placed on my face or the fact that I’m moving away from the house and placed on a stretcher. No, it’s the separation from Leonard.
He watched me while a paramedic assessed him.
His smile crept across his face, and there wasn’t enough oxygen in the mask. I’m pointing to him like I’m seeing him for the first time. The paramedic who was taking care of me pushes my hand down. “Take a deep breathe.”
I wanted to scream at her, but she thought something was wrong with the mask she pulled from my face.
Darkness consumed me hard and fast, and I’m lifted into the back of the ambulance. Even in my state, I’m glad I got away. One door slammed, the other took longer, but I’m being lulled into sleep until a hand takes mine.
“It’s okay, Claire. I’m here.”
A whimper left my lips at Leonard’s words. The second door slammed, locking me in with this monster. The sirens roared as the ambulance drove us away from our home.
I return to the here and now and get off the bed. I let all the water out of the tub and use the towel to dry the inside. Once it’s dry, I drag the blanket off the
bed and climb into the tub, covering myself with the soft material. It’s a small victory finding a place to hide, but one I cling to and allow my body to finally give out.
CHAPTER NINE
RICHARD
Any other time I would demand her to get out of the tub. This time it suits me. I make sure the sound is off in the box as Davy and Marcus remove Eamon’s body. He’s made quite the mess on my floor. Both men get to work without a word or objection of cleaning up their comrade’s spilled blood. They know how this works. The life span of any member of the Mafia isn’t long. We all resign ourselves to that. Each day we open our eyes and put on our suits could be our last day.
I keep an eye trained on Claire, who has created a little hiding spot in the tub where I can’t see her. All my planning and I hadn’t thought of her using the tub as a place to hide from me.
A war rages inside me, threatening to defeat my resolve to not step into the box. If I do, I’ll take her, and I wasn’t about forcing myself on women. I never had to. As the doctor cleaned her wounds, I took the time to really look her over. Each cut on her flesh screamed for attention, and I would gladly spend my time on each tiny graze.
Marcus and Davy leave with Eamon’s body. It doesn’t take long for Marcus to arrive back with a bucket and scrubbing brush and start cleaning up the blood. Davy re-appears at my side. He doesn’t speak, and that makes his next words very loud.
“Is she an enemy’s daughter?”
I don’t answer and fold my arms over my chest—his first warning not to proceed.
Davy is brave today. “We spent a year building this box, Richard. Just tell me that you didn’t lose your mind, and I gave in to the madness with you.”
A laugh catches in my throat, and I cough. The half-laugh leaves like a puff of old air. “I did lose my mind. There really was no other way in there.” I turn to Davy.
