AN: So, Marble Eyes wrote a thing. Apparently this meant I had to write this thing and very quickly. So I have. I'm not sure I'm selling it. It's a companion piece to her story, The Lighthouse, but there is no designated order. Read hers, too, it's awesome.
Enjoy and tell us what you think.
The lighthouse stood, proud, lonely and majestic, at the end of the long pier. Against the pale blue of the sky and the grey-blue of the sea, it might have looked like a sore thumb, a red blot on the landscape, ugly and out of place. It didn't. It fit this place perfectly. Brendan thought it looked like the pin holding down the sky.
He'd made this walk so many times. Even in prison he had trodden it in his dreams, through the lush greenery of the park, past the loud, steady flow of the power plant, along the cold grey wall itself. He hadn't generally made it on purpose – thoughts of the outside only really made you realise where you actually were all the more – he just seemed to close his eyes and find himself going there. Sometimes he was with the lads; kids he'd grown up with that followed him around through intimidation and manipulation, skills he'd learnt from Seamus. They were people he'd watched to see if they were weak, pansies like him, if their das gave them the punishments Brendan's gave him. If they dreaded the end of the day as much as Brendan did.
But mostly he made that journey with Steven.
When, later, he'd described that most important journey (the real one, not the multitude of dream ones), he'd said that it had been like undressing for the first time. He'd mentioned Seamus' name to Steven for the first time in his life, and told him more besides. He'd never shared that sort of thing with anyone, at least not with someone that mattered. His every communication, relationship, touch with his father was a secret, completely shameful beyond any physical imperfection he could imagine. It wasn't a scar, it was like having a great big filthy maggot where his soul should have been, a festering mess of self-hatred, doubt, fear, shame, blame, anger, disgust that threatened to devour him whole, replace him entirely. Maybe it should.
Because he was disgusting. He was everything his father told him he was – a queer, a pansy, a girl. Weak, pathetic, worthless. And maybe Steven was right, maybe being gay was alright, at least, Steven was gay and he was perfect. But that didn't mean his father wasn't right about the rest of it.
The shrink had told him otherwise. She'd listened to his story with tears in her eyes, at least the parts of the stories he was willing to let her know. Maybe he'd got to a stage where he just couldn't get any lower, and maybe a couple of hours a week explaining what a fucked up psycho he was would help. He'd called her 'Doc' because anything else would have made her a human, someone who could judge and pity him. He didn't want pity. He didn't want anything. At least, nothing he could have had. And it was this or sit in silence for the rest of his life.
He'd been shocked when the sneaky bitch had given evidence at his trial.
It had taken the best part of a year for a trial to even happen. Of course, he'd been refused bail; waving a gun, even an unloaded one, at police officers and the general public seemed to have that effect on judges. So instead, he'd gone to the stupid psych evaluations and doctor's appointments until he was blue in the face, saying not a word. He'd thought this one was nothing to do with his trial and all that. She'd said she was there to treat him. He was pretty sure she'd said it was confidential, but maybe that was one of the other ones.
Apparently being raped repeatedly from the age of eight was considered a high degree of provocation. Which meant he could serve a maximum of four years for the murder of Seamus Brady. And the bitch shrink, who he'd trusted with his deepest darkest secrets, seemed to think the rest of his confession was a series of fantasies, created by his subconscious to explain his father's actions, and she had managed to persuade his previously sensible and down to earth lawyers of the same. There was no evidence to link him to Joel's dad's disappearance, no motive for murdering Danny Houston whose death was attributed to Warren Fox, no permission from next of kin to exhume the body of Florence Brady, whose cause of death had already been recorded as lung cancer, and no reason to suspect that Simon Walker, who had recognised mental health issues, hadn't jumped in front of a train of his own volition. Even Brendan standing up and shouting "I fucking pushed him!" didn't sway the jury on that.
Innocent of murder. Guilty of manslaughter. Mitigating circumstances, blah, blah, blah.
Four years, minimum of two, depending on a satisfactory psychological evaluation. Brendan had assumed no one in their right mind would consider him sane, and had instructed Cheryl in no uncertain terms to tell Steven he'd be in prison for life. So he felt a bit weird walking down a Dublin pier at two in the afternoon less than three years after he went inside never hoping to see daylight again.
He had no fucking clue what he was doing with the pictures. Maybe he was an amateur photographer now. Same subject, different day, different mood, different angle. He had intended to send a letter, at least, after he had ruled out the possibility of telephoning. How could that possibly end well? But he'd sat at a hotel desk, pen in hand, sheet of paper in front of him for hours. There were no words for what he needed to say. He wasn't even sure he should be contacting Steven. Steven would be leading his own life, maybe back with Doug, Amy letting him see the kids as often as he chose. Brendan shouldn't bring his black hole of an existence crashing back onto that.
He'd started taking the photos one day. He had enough money, and decided to rent a flat in Sandymount. He wouldn't have even been able to explain it to himself. Why there? Why not near Cheryl? Why not somewhere completely new? With nothing to do, no job, no intention of getting one, he had taken to walking. Taking a photo on his phone. He bought a printer. He printed off that day's picture, stuck a stamp to the back and scribbled on an old familiar address. Without another mark on the page, he'd posted it. He repeated it the next day. And the next. Walking to the lighthouse, taking a photograph, sending it onwards.
He figured out it wasn't the right address soon enough. His assets had been frozen while he was inside, and it had taken him time to figure out what he actually owned now, but in amongst stuff from his lawyer was the insurance claim form for the flats he'd once bought in Hollyoaks. He'd read the information twice before he could process it.
He was on the phone to Cheryl within seconds. He shouted. Roared at her. Why didn't she tell him? What happened? Was he… was he…. Was he…
She told him the story. Brendan was shocked; so many people he'd known taken out in one blast, but not Steven. Steven was OK. Steven was alive. Steven wasn't dead. He felt bad for the student girl, and the weird one and even Douglas, but he'd sacrifice them all and a hundred others if it meant Steven could be ok.
He got the new address off Cheryl then swore her to secrecy, said he wanted to check on Steven, and there was no way he was going to drop in on his life and let him change whatever he'd managed to build. Cheryl had protested, but Brendan knew how to manipulate her.
But he kept sending the pictures, to the right address this time. He didn't think about it. He just sent them. Maybe they were just enough to let Steven know he was there, but also let him ignore them should he choose. He didn't dare hope for an answer. He didn't try to give him the opportunity. He left no return address. He walked and took the photo, printed it, posted it then drank in a local pub. He thought about seducing the young lad behind the bar. He was pretty enough. He drank some more, and went home.
The next day he did the same.