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  Time for a visit.

  A second yellow post-it drew his eye as he turned to leave. He lifted it from the position next to the phone. Richard’s address glared at him in thick black ink. His gut knotted. Shit was about to get real. All he could hope was that he’d done enough to clear any evidence of his involvement. He placed the note back in its spot, and flicked his lip-ring between his teeth. If sorting his mother out wasn’t going to do enough to scare Steph off, then a murder charge for Richard would ice the cake.

  He couldn’t let it happen. He needed Steph like his next breath, he was sure of it. But then again, he couldn’t be selfish. He couldn’t be his father. If Steph was involved when all this went down, he ran the risk of putting her in danger. But how was he supposed to keep her away when his feet itched to run toward her? Perhaps if Steph saw a bit of what he was really like, it would help him keep her distanced while all this shit with his ma played out. He could use her own emotion against her; use her fear to push them apart. He burnt with the desire to set things straight after this morning, to hold Steph close, and feel that perfect body pressed against his. Still though, he needed her away from him, and out of his mother’s scrutiny until it all blew over. If that wench took an interest in his Cutie, and laid so much as a filthy finger on her, then he wouldn’t care what became of him. He’d get his revenge at all costs.

  Bringing his mother down would be an ugly affair and perhaps a complication he could equally as easily decide against. But he’d made his bed the day he cowardly spared her life as a kid, and now he was going to lie in it. The bitch had drawn breath too many times as it was.

  He wanted Steph, and nothing would deter him from ensuring she was at his side when the storm passed. First though, they needed to be able to hold on through the worst of it.

  Safely.

  ***

  “Hey, Sis.”

  Steph crooked the phone against her shoulder, and carried on tapping out the figures in the appropriate fields. “Hey, Ben.”

  “Hardn’t heard from you in a few, so wanted to ring and make sure Mr Kinky hadn’t left you handcuffed somewhere.”

  “Ha-ha. I’ve been good, just busy.”

  “So everything’s good with Cass?”

  Her fingers stilled on the keyboard. “Not yet. I can’t bring myself to talk to her, you know. If I do, I can guarantee it’ll be bad.”

  “I know.”

  Steph grinned at the memory. “You’ll never guess who I bumped into while I was out with Pete.” She reclined in her chair, and took the receiver in her hand.

  “Is Pete the new guy?”

  Her face flamed. She’d let that slip like an oiled fish. “Uh, yeah.” Hopefully he wouldn’t make the connection. “Anyway—guess.”

  “Mum?”

  A snort exploded from her nostrils at the thought. “That would be classic, but no. Dave.”

  “That douche you used to date?”

  “Exactly what I called him.” She giggled.

  “I hope you tore him a new one.”

  “Didn’t need to. I think he felt pretty insignificant as it was. He called me a freak, and a weirdo.”

  Ben scoffed. “Well that’s fucking mature.”

  “Right?”

  “I hope you didn’t let him bother you.”

  She smiled. “Not at all. I actually laughed.”

  “Yeah?” He didn’t try to hide his surprise.

  “Yeah. Pete asked what was funny, and like I said to him, it was like watching a kid throw a tantrum. I mean, how could I let what he said bother me when he looked so pathetic.”

  “I’m proud of you, you know.” Ben’s compliment tugged at her heart.

  “I know.”

  “Not that long ago, you would’ve taken his criticism to heart, and I would have had a bawling Sis to deal to. I would have been hammering how special you are back into your thick head.”

  “I know.” Steph’s voice wavered with the raw emotions he brought to the surface. “I’ve come a long way.”

  “Don’t forget it. We both know you’re going to have another shitty spell, but at least if you can recognize what you’ve achieved now, you can remind yourself of it then. You follow?”

  “Yeah. I follow.”

  “Anyway. I didn’t ring you at work to make you cry—you are crying right?”

  She laughed. “Almost, you bastard.”

  “Can’t have your makeup running.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Love ya, Sis.”

  “Love you too.”

  She replaced the handset, and took a moment to stare out the window and gather herself. Crows ambled across the car-park, looking for anything they could scrounge. She lost herself watching them; their sleek feathers shining in the sun. Ben had been spot-on. A few years ago, she couldn’t have handled the things that she’d been through in the last few days. If Dave hadn’t destroyed her, then the fall out with Cass would have done a number on her. A few years ago, and she would have been holed up at home, trying to remind her self why she shouldn’t simply disappear into oblivion.

  She was stronger now, though, and if she applied the same reasoning to her decision around Pete, then what was she running from? The option to cut her losses and walk away was the coward’s way out. What would she be walking away to? Solitude, safety, and boredom? What kind of life was that? She’d been there before, and buried herself until she couldn’t hack the isolation anymore. She had burst forth like the phoenix on her back, and became the woman she is now. Perhaps it was well past time she finished the transformation, and embraced everything that made her unique—socially acceptable, or not.

  ***

  The motel sign missed a letter, and the paint on the buildings looked ten years too late for a touch-up. Hey, what else could a woman on a meagre benefit expect for her dollar? Pistol looked at the creased sheet of paper in his hand, and drew a deep breath.

  This was it.

  Reunion time.

  He rapped his knuckles on the roof of the rod, and pushed off. Traffic flowed at a steady pace down the four-lane road, and he eyed the complex while he waited for a gap to cross. Two identical rows of two-storey units lined the long section, and seven cars sat parked between. Seven cars, possibly with at least an average of two occupants in each, meant fourteen possible witnesses.

  Great.

  See ya soon Sargent.

  He strode over the worn tarmac, and into the car park as he tucked the now folded sheet in his pocket. Unit eleven, ground floor on the right was his destination. He marched up to the plain brown door, and stalled. Was it wise to do this now? Had he simply let his emotions get the better of him? Maybe he did need to plan this out a little better? Ah, fuck it. Might as well not waste the petrol. He thumped three short beats on the door, and jammed his hands in his pockets. His toes wiggled an impatient rhythm under his steel-caps.

  The door opened wide, and the face of death stared back.

  “My lovely son,” his mother leered. “Come to welcome yer mam with open arms?”

  “Fuck off,” he spat. “I’m only here for one thing, and that’s to tell ya to fuck off before one of us books a spot six-foot under.”

  She leaned into the doorframe, and smiled. “That a threat, son? Or is warnin’ me off ya own fucked up way of sayin’ ya love me?”

  “It’s a fuckin’ promise ya heartless bitch.”

  The lines around her eyes doubled as she glared.

  He lashed an arm out, and snatched her wrist. Pistol wrenched her scrawny arm toward him, and turned it over. Tracks lay like pick-up sticks up her arm. “You’re still usin’.”

  “Maybe I wouldn’t be if my own flesh’n blood cared enough to see to his mother’s care.”

  He threw her arm down, and closed the space between them. “I thought her majesty took care of ya? Or was your stay not long enough?”

  She backed into the room, and then spun to walk away while she spoke. “I shouldn’t have spent a single day in that fuckin’ sc
ummy hole. If you’d been loyal to ya family, none of it would of ‘appened.”

  “You ‘ave got to be kiddin’ me!” He stomped to where she stood with her back to him, and shoved her hard in the shoulder. “How dare ya blame your stay at the majesty’s expense on me. You’re the one who killed her son.”

  “You drove me to it, ya little shit. What did ya honestly think I’d do if you flushed me stash?”

  “You shouldn’t have been a heroin whore to start with. You had kids to fuckin’ care for.”

  She looked him head to toe, and snarled. “You kids did fine on yer own.”

  “Did we?” He chuckled. “Only a bitch as delusional as you would think such a thing.” She stumbled as he jabbed a finger into her bony chest. “We fuckin’ starved half the time. You gave priority to your damn drugs, and alcohol over us; we couldn’t even take a fuckn’ bath until you’d drunk the bloody contents of it.”

  She flicked a dry, scraggly strand of brown hair over her shoulder, and stamped her hands on her hips. “You think ya better than me? Is that it? I bet you’ve done the same; pissed your earnin’s away.”

  He shook his head, and stepped away from her before his hands found their way to her throat. “You haven’t changed at all; still trying to put everyone else down to make yer own shitty existence seem worthwhile.”

  She strode across the room, and laid a firm hand across his face. “You ungrateful little shite. I brought ya into this world. If it weren’t for me then—”

  “What?” he boomed. “I wouldn’t have had a non-existent childhood? I wouldn’t have seen me brother die at the hands of the woman who was supposed to care for us? I wouldn’t have spent my adult life thinking about how she could suffer, just as he did?”

  She smirked. “That it? Ya want to make me pay, son?”

  “More than you’d ever know,” he muttered as he paced the room.

  “So why don’t ya do it then?” she taunted. “Want me to find your balls for ya so you’ve got the guts to do it?”

  He paused, and spat at her feet. “The fuckin’ devil wouldn’t want ya, you sick bitch. Even he’d bar the door to avoid your ugly mug.”

  “So what is it then?” She stood before him; feet wide, and hands on hips. “We gonna have a dance, or what?”

  “I got a few questions first.”

  She narrowed her stare, but kept her lips tightly sealed.

  “Why are ya here? Why now?”

  She licked her dry lips, and wrinkled her nose. “Certainly ain’t to hug a koala.”

  “You wouldn’t know how to hug something if ya fuckin’ life depended on it.” He stepped into her space, and leant down to look her in the eye. “Why. Are. Ya. Here?”

  She broke the stare to shake out a cigarette, completely unaffected by his presence. “You ruined me life that day, Pete. I could have held it together long enough to get yer brother off to a better education, a better chance at life. But no—“ She stuck the stick between her lips, the white line bobbing as she spoke. “—my hopeless son had to get in the fuckin’ way. If ya hadn’t taken me drugs away, I could have stayed level.” Her eyes bore into him as she pressed forward. “But you killed wee Colin. You made me need, and you made me snap. You killed your fuckin’ brother and any hope I had of a son to support me in my golden years.”

  His nostrils flared, and his lip twitched. “You,” he ground out. “Ya don't deserve golden years. If Colin lived, if he had got out, he would have seen what a useless slag his mother was and cut ya off—like I did.”

  “You think you’re better than me?” she asked, nodding as she straightened. “You think that you can ‘be something’ without me?”

  “I fuckin’ know it.”

  “You don’t have the smarts. You’re a dumb thug, just like ya father. No good for anything, but brutality.”

  Pistol ran his lip across his bottom teeth, his fists flexing. “I learnt how from the best. Nobody knows how to be heartless better than you, Ma.”

  “My biggest disappointment is what you are,” she muttered, searching through a tatty bag for a light.

  “Havin’ ya final smoke before you get on yer way underground?” He pushed a fist into the opposite palm, cracking each knuckle in turn.

  “Ya fuckin’ wish.” She chuckled.

  He burned to ask her the one thing he had always wanted to know. “Have I ever made you proud? Of anythin’?”

  She laughed, and the cigarette dropped to the floor. Her mouth hung open, showing missing teeth, and the stains from her constant smoking. Scrawny hands clutched at her belly, and she bent over, whooping for air. “You? Made me proud? Are ya fuckin’ serious?” She sniffed between giggles. “I should have killed you that day. Given the world space for someone who would have made a fuckin’ difference to me life.”

  His skin prickled, and the room shrunk about them. His sole focus was her, and the rage she incited sent blood coursing through his veins like a shot of nitrous. “You have no idea what I’m capable of—what I’ve done. Otherwise you’d know better than to get me started.”

  She tipped her chin at his growl, and sneered. “Show me what ya capable of then, ya chicken shite.”

  Red flag—meet bull.

  Pistol shot his arm out, and wrapped a hand around her throat. He walked them to the wall behind her, and his mother’s slender frame slammed into the plaster with a dull thud. She grappled at his arm, eventually finding her leverage by gouging her stained nails into his flesh. He flinched, but it was all the weakness she needed. She twisted, and writhed in his grip as he struggled to get full control.

  Her knee connected with his groin.

  Pistol groaned as he doubled over; nausea sending his focus into a starry, downward spiral. His mother shoved him in the shoulder as she fled, and he lost his balance. His head connected with the thin, pile carpet, and bells rung inside his skull. The impact smacked his swede back into focus, and he scrambled to his feet to grab the woman as his mother ripped the door wide. She cackled, and crossed into the car park while he hustled to catch up. His leg knocked the lamp from the small side table in his haste to turn; the ceramic base shattering on the floor as he swiped at her retreating frame.

  He caught hold of her shirt, and hauled her backward. Her balance faltered, and she fell crashing into his chest, knocking them both to the ground. “What kind of monster assaults his mother,” she screeched.

  “Only the kind you could have spawned,” he hissed as he climbed on top of her.

  “You were a fuckin’ mistake.” Small droplets of spit flew from her dry lips. “Ya father never wanted me to keep ya, and I should have listened to him. I should have aborted ya.”

  A sharp crack ricocheted off the motel buildings as his fist connected with her face. Blood shot from her nose, and she clutched at it, calling him every name under the sun. The sight of the red spurred him on, and he hit her again, shattering her cheekbone. The rage was so blinding, he couldn’t have given a fuck if there was a hundred possible witnesses. The charges would be worth every second.

  “What’s going on?” somebody yelled from the balcony above them.

  He turned to look as they rushed down the stairs, and let his guard slip.

  Bony hands took hold of his waistcoat, and ripped him toward the ground—directly into the oncoming Liverpool kiss his mother dealt. Pain tore through his skull; a bruise immediately formed on her forehead as she threw him back.

  “You bitch!” His fingers wove a neat pattern on the nape of her neck, and his thumbs overlapped at the soft point of her jugular. He pressed until she sputtered; the sound distracting from the headache she created. Joy bloomed in his heart at the sight of her eyes stretched wide, terror fighting for recognition behind the steely mask of indifference she wore.

  A solid object connected with the side of his head, sending him toppling onto the concrete. His vision swum, and tinnitus droned deep in his ears. He propped himself up on his left forearm, and squinted at the dark shape crouched over his mothe
r. Words blurred in, and out of recognition as the ringing in his ears grew. He tried to stand, but the tumbling in his head sent his senses haywire. Up was down, and left was right. Today was yesterday, and here was there. Pistol hit the pavement again with a final whoompf.

  Round one to his mother.

  Ivan pulled the front door wide, and a grin damn near split his face in two. “Hey pretty lady. Are you sure you’ve got the right house?” She glanced down at the outfit she had on. Nothing unusual?

  “Har-de-ha, Ivan.” Steph joked to ease the tension, and edged past him to drop her bag behind the sofa. “So what’s cooking?”

  He rubbed his hands together as he passed into the kitchen. “Your favourite; spag bol.”

  Yum. “You wouldn’t be trying to butter me up, would you?”

  He locked eyes, and drew a lopsided grin. “Come on, you love my cooking. Why else would you agree to dinner on a school night?”

  She laughed; the humour didn’t quite reach her eyes. Steph drew a stool to sit at the counter and watch Ivan plate up. He moved about the kitchen with zeal, kitted out in a button-down shirt, and what appeared to be new jeans. Little over-dressed for week-night dinner. A foreign nerve stirred in her gut, and she quickly ushered it aside as he turned to place two plates between them.

  “Seriously, Stephie.“ He dolloped healthy portions onto each. “Why did you text? Is something wrong?”

  “Why would you assume that?”

  “Because the last time you wanted company, you were a little cut up about a certain psycho.”

  She scowled at him, and folded her arms before her. “He’s not psycho.”

  “Whatever he is—“ Ivan rolled his eyes. “—he’s got issues.”

  “You’re just miffed I kicked you out in the middle of the night,” she kidded.

  “I hope he was worth it,” Ivan muttered in response.