A.N; Bit of a short chapter, but hope you enjoy.
Well, enjoy is the wrong word.
"Ste, it's gone ten! Why aren't you up?"
Amy's voice echoed through his head. He didn't want to get up. Brendan was going to be furious with him. And Cheryl when she got back.
Maybe he should warn Amy if he was about to get arrested for assault, or beaten up, which was probably more likely. She might not even be angry at Brendan for it.
Bloody hell, a very angry Irishman could arrive at the door any second.
"I've dropped Leah off at school," she almost sang, "but Lucas has gone back to bed, I don't think he's very well. Will you be alright to keep an eye on him? I'm supposed to be meeting Michaela in a few minutes for coffee. I'll be back before your shift, I promise."
"Yeah, all right." Ste croaked from under the covers. If Lucas was in bed, why should he get up?
"Ah, thanks Ste! What would I do without you? But get up now, there's someone here to see you."
Ste groaned, "All right, all right, I'm up." He threw the covers off himself and moaned "Who is it?"
"Morning Stephen," greeted a confident Irish drawl. And Ste took a moment to realise that yes, the middle aged man he dreaded most in the world was standing in the doorway to his bedroom.
"Er, you know Mr Brady, don't you Ste?" Amy said hesitantly, looking a little shocked that their visitor had followed her to Ste's bedroom. "He was about to knock when I got back. He's Cheryl's Dad."
"Yeah, Stephen knows me. We met the other night, didn't we Stephen?" The Irishman's stance was casual, confident. Ste guessed he'd been a perfect gentleman to Amy right up until this moment.
"Yeah," mumbled Ste. He felt guilt course through him as he saw his eye, and prayed the man wasn't here just to out him to Amy as a violent yob.
"Right," chimed Amy, clearly feeling the strange tension and trying to dispel it. "Why don't I make you a nice cup of tea while Ste gets dressed?" Ste could have kissed her for her quick thinking of a polite way to get Mr Brady out of his bedroom.
It didn't work though.
"Oh, don't you worry about me, love," Mr Brady assured, cheerfully, "You get off to see your friend, I'll put the kettle on for us blokes."
All three stood awkwardly for a few more moments, then Amy said hesitantly, "Oh.. OK… if you're sure…"
She looked pointedly at Ste, trying to check it was OK with him for her to leave now, but Brady answered.
"Oh, we're fine, love," he said, and put an arm around her waist to guide her out, still making assurances about little chats and boys stuff.
Ste grabbed the moment. He scrambled out of bed, and dived for the wardrobe. He had barely found some clothes when he heard the flat door open and close, signalling that Amy had gone. He pushed his bedroom door too with a foot, hoping that Mr Brady would take that as a hint and wait outside. He dug through the drawers for underwear and socks. He'd just found them and pulled off his pyjama top when the door to his bedroom swung open.
He hesitated, hands on the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. He didn't want to make it worse by being rude too, not after punching a man in his fifties.
Then he thought about the reason he had punched this man, and decided that his anger was acceptable.
"Er, could you wait in the living room please?" he said, indicating his own body, and using his tone of voice to contrast with the politeness of his words.
"No," Brady said simply. He shut the door behind him and leaned back on the frame, watching Ste casually.
Ste folded his arms. "Look, I'm sorry about hitting you, right, but you were not listening to my no."
Brady pushed himself away from the door, his body completely relaxed, and wondered around, seemingly to look at the wardrobe, the posters, the tops of the drawers. He picked things up and examined them leisurely. His movements brought him further into the room. Closer to Ste.
Ste felt himself get angrier; he was being ignored. "Oi, I asked you to wait somewhere else!"
Brady picked up a photo, and glanced at it. It was of Amy and the kids. After a few moments he said, thoughtfully, "I didn't, did I?"
"What?" Ste was making an effort to be as rude as he could now.
He put the photo down carefully, and turned dead on to Ste. "I didn't listen to your no."
Ste took an involuntary step backwards. Behind him was the wall; he'd managed to get himself trapped between Brady, two walls and the bed. This probably should have worried him more than it did. Did the old man want another fight?
"What do you want?" he demanded.
Brady smirked. "That's an interesting question, Stephen," he said, his airy tone belied by the seriousness of his expression, "You see, the moment I saw you, I wanted nothing more than to plough your arse 'til it bled. Of course, I knew you were fucking my son. But I did think he'd share. I usually do, see. But I suppose, he does have a ridiculous tendency to protect little boys like you. Silly really. He'll beat you black and blue, and has, I'm sure. But he does it stop you being found out." Brady paused and seemed to lose focus on Ste, "we both know what happens when you get found out." Brady sniffed, his eyes snapping back to Ste's face, "But things have progressed now." he touched Ste's face gently, "You are causing us a problem. All of us. You are a threat to my family. So I…" he stroked his hand down before withdrawing it, "I have to deal with you."
Ste felt physically sick at what had just been said. His stomach felt like it was turning, trying to escape his body; to avoid dealing with this information. He had enough presence of mind to dodge the first punch, but that was a feint anyway. The second landed with force on his stomach and winded him. As he folded in from the force, Brady pushed a hand over his mouth, gripping him by the head, and whispered, almost snarled, "You may feel like shouting, calling for help, yeah? But I don't think you want your kid to see this, do ye?"
He used the hand on Ste's mouth to slam the younger man's head against the wall, then both to push him flat onto the bed.
Ste's vision swam as he landed face down on the mattress. Part of him gave up at that moment. Maybe this was what life was supposed to be about for him. Something about him made people do this to him, need to hurt him, keep him in his place. Maybe he wasn't supposed to look up from that place; he was meant to stay an unemployed waste of space like Terry. There was always someone around to beat all the light from his life, to bring him back down with a thud. At least it wasn't himself anymore.
Rough hands quickly fumbling at his waistband reminded him though.
This was not just a beating.