Malaise Read online

  Table of Contents

  ALSO BY MAX

  NOTE TO THE READER

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  MALAISE

  Copyright © 2016 Max Henry

  Published by Max Henry

  All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Max Henry is in no way affiliated with any brands, songs, musicians, or artists mentioned in this book.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Published: February 2016, by Max Henry [email protected]

  Edited by: Lauren McKellar

  Cover Image: Sara Eirew Photography

  Cover Design: Sara Eirew

  Formatted by: Max Effect

  ALSO BY MAX

  FALLEN ACES MC SERIES

  Unrequited

  Unbreakable

  COMING SOON

  Tormented

  Existential

  Redundant

  BUTCHER BOYS SERIES

  Devil You Know

  Devil on Your Back

  Devil May Care

  Devil in the Detail

  Devil Smoke

  BANJAXED SERIES

  Pistol

  Loaded

  Recoil

  OTHERWORLD DESIRES (Paranormal)

  Battle to Become

  Methods for Mayhem

  NOTE TO THE READER

  Malaise is set in a fictional town in New Zealand, based quite closely to the one I grew up in. To say this story is personal to me would be an understatement.

  I was the girl bullied at school every damn day.

  I was the girl who didn’t fit in with the others and was ridiculed about it.

  I dated the guy that the town gave a bad rap to because of who his family were, when in fact he had a heart of gold.

  And a few years later, I dated another boy who showed me it’s okay to be who I am, that who I am is pretty awesome, and that I shouldn’t be ashamed of being different—the boy who I married nine years later.

  Malaise features a bit of Kiwi slang. As much as I’ve tried to keep it easily understood, there may be a few words that trip you up. If you need anything explained, feel free to message me via Facebook with your questions.

  Now go make yourself a cuppa, get comfy in your favourite chair, and enjoy ;)

  PROLOGUE

  Trauma is a hell of a thing. I’d seen first-hand how a person’s experiences in life could shape them when I was a child. Our neighbour, Mr Clavers, was ex-military. He was one of the unfortunate souls who returned from the Vietnam War to be spat on by the people who should have thanked him for his sacrifice. Because there were sacrifices, a lot of them… something I could go on about forever, but let’s get back on topic.

  Quarter past three on a weekday, my brother, Den, and I would cycle past Mr Clavers’ house on our way home from school. Mum always told us that if he was out in his garden with his back turned we had to ring our bells to let him know we were coming. You see, Mr Clavers was shell-shocked. On a wet August night in 1966, a mortar round struck the camp he slept in. As well as robbing him of a decent night’s sleep ever since, it stole away three of his fellow soldiers and injured many more. Anything that merely resembled the whine of an incoming shell would set him off, and our tyres on the pavement were one of those things.

  He gardened a lot. Most perfect roses you’d ever seen. Mum would help him prune the bushes in the colder months when his aches set in and he couldn’t grasp the secateurs as well. He would say with a sly wink that he only accepted the help because couldn’t say no to such a pretty woman, but we knew that the cooler weather aggravated his old wounds. Yet the generation he was born and raised in didn’t like to complain. He suffered in silence until the day he passed; it’s just how things were done.

  This particular afternoon, though, Den led our homeward bound chase down the long stretch that was our street… late. We’d had fun after school with a few friends, throwing water bombs at each other, and I remember to this day the patterns in Den’s wet T-shirt as he stood on his pedals to gain distance on me. Mr Clavers was in his garden, bent double, foot pushing down on the edge of the shovel blade as he dug weeds from around his row of Icebergs. Den would have rung the bell, let him know we were coming past, but for whatever reason he looked back at me instead and never realised the old man was in his yard.

  That grin—so infectious. As a kid it was the kind of smile you couldn’t help but share, the sort that got under your skin on the worst of days and made you laugh even though you had no idea what was funny to begin with. As a young man, it would be the grin that got him in trouble on more than one occasion when he unleashed its deadly effects on some unsuspecting girl.

  He smiled, stilled his feet on the pedals and coasted toward our driveway. There was only a metre to go, but Den wouldn’t make it. We were seconds from home, but Mr Clavers was back in Long Tan. That day, I learnt how badly a head injury could bleed. Especially when the cause is a shovel to the side of the skull. Den fell instantly, and Mr Clavers snapped back to reality just as quick. But the damage was done.

  The old man hobbled across to get our mum while I sat with Den, talking to him as he cried. I had blood on my hands, it was on the concrete below us, and I remember being mortified that Den’s new WWE T-shirt was ruined. An ambulance came, and Den then spent two days in hospital to recover. Mr Clavers brought roses over each afternoon and asked how he was. But nothing would change the fact Den wouldn’t ever hear a thing out of his left ear again.

  Permanent injury caused by blunt force trauma.

  Little did I know that wouldn’t be the last of it for him.

  ONE

  Fourteen minutes until freedom. My feet ache, and the monotonous beep of the checkout as I swipe my customer’s groceries has left me with a dull headache that even my emergency stash of Panadol couldn’t dampen.

  I may as well be shackled to the spot considering how unlikely it is that I’ll be granted enough of a reprieve to run across to aisle two and get myself a bottle of water. From the minute I step foot inside this half-metre-squared box until the second I clock off, it’s my one and only post. If I need anything, I better bring it with me at the star
t of my shift, otherwise I can kiss getting anyone else to bring it to me goodbye.

  “There’s a message from your mum on the clipboard, Megan.” Our supervisor for the night, Anna, waves a slip of paper in the air before ducking her head to focus on securing it to our sign out sheet.

  I hesitate between cans of peaches and wait to see if she looks up at me again. Maybe if I lay the agony on thick she might go grab some water for me? Predictably though, it’s not my lucky night; she spins around and busies herself on the computer that faces the other way instead. Typical.

  “Any plans for the weekend?” I ask without so much as looking up from my work. I couldn’t care less about the response—I need the distraction from the dull ache in my temple.

  My customer—a middle-aged woman who looks as though she’s relieved to have been able to ditch her suit jacket for the night—answers while she waits on me to finish processing her groceries. “Other than my son’s rugby game, not much.”

  I nod with a pleasant smile plastered on my lips and wrestle her giant box of cornflakes into one of the shitty plastic bags that rip if you stack too much weight inside.

  Twelve minutes left.

  “What about you?” Customer-lady participates in our charade and returns my question.

  I’m getting rat-shit drunk at a location I’ve been given directions to by a girl who I’ve sat next to in science all year, yet never spoken to before now. “Just a quiet one too, I think.”

  “It’s nice to have a break every now and then.” She smiles, but her eyes are glued to the last loaf of bread on the conveyor as though it carries her will to live.

  You aren’t the only one, love.

  I’m on checkout four tonight. I’ve been good. I’ve done my job and kept my nose clean long enough that I’m in the equivalent of the corporate box, since my aisle overlooks the customer service kiosk. Being in the forefront means that I’ve been kept busy and the hours have flown by, but it also means I can see the clock over the exit, which isn’t good for an impatient person like me.

  The end is nigh—not only for my shift, but also for my job. School wraps up in a couple of weeks, and if I get my way I’ll be stepping onto a bus bound for the city with a bag on my back and a world of opportunities in my grasp. I’ve been saving hard for the past eight months to get the hell out of this no-hope town, and hopefully my bank account is fat enough for me to pay my way until I find more permanent work in the Big Smoke.

  I speed through the last two bags—still second on the all-time record of staff scanning times, thank you very much—and punch through to the payment screen. “Cash or card?”

  The customer waves a slip of plastic at me and I tap the ‘Pay by EFTPOS’ button as my thoughts drift back to where I might find suitable accommodation those first few weeks away from home. My gaze shifts out the floor-to-ceiling windows to our left as she enters her account. “Any cash out?” I don’t even look at her. After this many transactions it’s programmed in me how long it takes them to get to this point.

  “No, thank you.”

  An old blue sedan in the car park catches my eye and snaps my focus squarely to the here and now. Without looking away, I tap the no cash button and let her finish. The docket printer screeches and whines as I squint a little to try and make out who’s in the car. Swear it looks like….

  “Thank you.”

  I snap out of my daze to find my customer reaching over the edge of my station to take her docket from the printer. “Sorry.” In my haste to help her, I knock the two pens that balance on my screen to the counter, and they skitter down to the bagging area.

  Shit. Fingers crossed Anna didn’t see that; such blatant inattention will shift me back an aisle.

  The woman smiles again, this time a hell of a lot more forced, and wheels her trolley of groceries toward the exit. The digital clock above the door reads seven fifty-eight. Two minutes to closing.

  Couldn’t come quick enough. I do what I can to speed up my exit by wiping down my checkout with the cleaner that’s kept under the counter. Conveyor, scanner, and unit cleaned, I’ve started on the packing area when I pick up the movement of a trolley in my peripheral. Twisting so my back is fully turned to them, I hold my breath as I wipe the far reaches of the bagging area.

  The deflection trick works a treat. What is probably indistinguishable to most is loud and clear to my ears: the frustrated sigh of a checkout operator who has a full trolley to process minutes before closing. I hazard a glance at my workmate behind me and smile in response to her venomous scowl. Serves the bitch right for doing it to me last night.

  “Megan. You can take your drawer out and head home.”

  Fucking music to my ears. Anna clips the chain across my aisle and places the Next Checkout sign at the end of the conveyor.

  I whiz through the remainder of my cleaning at breakneck speed, thoughts of my future forgotten as I try to catch another glimpse of the blue sedan outside. Tinted windows and cut coils give away exactly whose it is, but what bothers me most is that I don’t know who’s in it. Jasper Arden is the senior year’s hottest property, and rumour has it he’s on the prowl for a new girlfriend. The boys at school are like prospective employers when it comes to the girls in our year. They don’t need to chase, they simply sit back and take their pick when the strain of one-night stands and boys-only get-togethers takes a toll.

  I pop the till and remove my cash box, sliding the lid over and locking it with the small key at the back of the drawer. Balancing the heavy canister on my hip, I eye the car again on the short walk to the supervisor’s cupboard. The passenger door opens, and none other than Amelia Dennis steps out. Bitch. The girl won the fucking genetic lottery. Freakishly long legs, the most symmetrical and perfect bone structure, and skin that holds a damn tan all fucking year round. Seriously. None of us mortals stand a chance next to her. She leans down, arse popped as she rests her elbows on the window and talks to Jasper. Judging by the amount of her butt poking out of that skimpy dress, I’d say he’s currently copping an eyeful of tit as well. Fuck me.

  “Don’t forget the message.”

  Struggling to hold on to the cash box, and praying I haven’t wet myself with fright, I heave in a breath to calm my racing heart and face Anna. “Sure thing. Thanks.”

  She smiles—a feat given her bun is pulled so tight it gives her a facelift—and walks away, leaving me to regain control of my haywire bodily functions in peace. My hand shakes so much that the signature on the sign in/sign out sheet for the cash boxes looks so damn foreign I swear I’ll be hauled in for forgery next week.

  A slip of paper with my name printed on the front is folded and stapled, tucked under the metal slide of the clipboard. I tug it free and pocket it in my shift dress, my hand curling around its edges. The shelf stockers have begun as I walk the aisles to get through to where the staffroom sits above the butchery and deli. During the day you have to walk the gauntlet of customers needing help finding “that particular spice” to get there. Reason number 229 why I love working closing: there’s next to nobody around.

  The staffroom is empty when I enter, offering me some respite from the long-arse day. It’s the simple things that make me happy, like being able to change out of my uniform in private. I drop the unflattering red shift dress and change into my go-to jeans and a loose T-shirt, slipping my feet into my cherry Docs as I simultaneously bag my uniform into my school backpack. My hand closes around the thick cotton weave as I shove it deep into the crevices around my lunchbox and textbooks, and the foreign stiffness of the note jogs my memory. Get it together, Meg.

  Locker shut for the weekend, and bag on my back, I unfold the message on my way down the stairs. The pathetic bulbs in the walkway aren’t enough to light the words written on the slip of docket paper. I edge the door to the supermarket open with a shoulder as I make out the short directive.

  Come straight home after work. It’s urgent.

  Because I was so going to attend a bonfire party carrying
all this… I won’t lie though, the last part makes me anxious. Mum is the most laid-back person you’d ever meet. For her to say it’s urgent? I try to appease my panic by reasoning that if it was that bad, they wouldn’t have waited until I finished my shift.

  Maybe the message was just written down wrong?

  Still, this rapid-fire heartbeat isn’t because I’m excited to see Santa soon. Something’s not right, and until I get home, my mind is going to go nuts coming up with all sorts of crazy scenarios. I exit the front doors to find Jasper’s sedan still in the same spot, Amelia nowhere to be seen. The driver-side window slowly rolls down as I approach, and try as I might, that fucking magnetic pull the guy emits has my head lifting to take in his scruffy, bad-boy appearance.

  His full lips spread into a devious smile. “Megan.”

  “Jasper.” I keep up my pace as I reach the back end of the car, heading toward him as I pass. What the hell does he want with me?

  “You coming to the rave tonight?”

  “Does a brown bear shit in the woods?” I answer as I pass his window, hell-bent on not being held up, because “urgent,” remember?

  The low resonance of his chuckle is disturbed by the metallic creak of his door opening. I turn and walk backwards so I can take in every inch of his tall, built physique. Ripped jeans give me tiny glimpses at his thick thighs, his corded arms wrapped in a Tool T-shirt. His tongue peeks out to toy with the lip ring that sits to the left side of his full bottom lip.

  “You need a ride?”

  You need a what? “Pardon?” My heel catches the concrete edging of the garden that runs around the outside of the car park. I stumble, but the important thing to remember here is that I don’t fall and make a complete fucking ass of myself.

  “A ride tonight… to the party. You sorted?”

  “Hadn’t thought about it.” And most definitely would have never thought I’d get offered one from him.

  Jasper and I? We just don’t run in the same circles, and let’s say there’s a good reason for that. One I don’t feel like messing with. For all I know this could just be another prank, like when I was asked to the junior ball in Year 11, only to be stood up.