This fic has stalled a bit, because my own mental health has plummeted, which, while that's handy for being in the mindframe to write depressed!Martina, has made it a bit hard to go through it all and edit. I've finally had some time to sit and edit though, so here's a new chunk for the long weekend.
Housekeeping: this does tie in with ATEOTD (chronology on forums) and also with Martina's backstory, Leaping out of the bath shouting next, which I have temporarily taken down because I want to rewrite it at some point, but if you don't remember it, it was more or less just Martina and her brother being dysfunctional, and how blind she was to everything he did up until he disappeared.
Disclaimer: This fic is not meant to give any particular message about mental health, speak for anyone in real life, claim any treatment is superior to any other, claim everyone's experiences are the same, because everybody is different, any of that. I cannot stress that enough. A lot of experiences reflected in this fic are drawn from personal experience or the experience of others around me, and this fic is just exploring how Martina's experiences played out in this particular headcanon (I can't watch Martina's scenes in Bread without coming to the conclusion that she's depressed, and that colours this headcanon. It was only a minor plot point in the original ATEOTD fic, because that was mainly focussed on her and Joey getting together, but it's always been part of her characterisation in this universe. )
Credit where credit is due: a) I don't own Bread, and b) I don't own the poem Adrian recites, which is A. C. Swinburne's The Garden of Proserpine.
Trigger warnings: mental health, mentions of suicide, mentions of alcoholism, medical issues.
I
Doubtful dreams of dreams
2010
(Two weeks earlier)
Martina can't remember what she was dreaming of – only that it made her scream when she woke, and now she can't get back to sleep. It's dead quiet and pitch dark the way she prefers it, the blockout curtains Joey bought her doing their job, she's a comfortable temperature and in a comfortable position, and yet, while her body is relaxing, her mind can't follow suit.
The past few weeks have been rough for them – particularly for Joey; Jack's been back in hospital again, undergoing an operation after his second heart attack – and though she's managed to be there for him, help him get through it, it's been harder than ever to keep herself together. To pretend she's all right enough to be what he needs.
She doesn't understand the maelstrom in her mind. She's not even that close to Jack. She suspects it's less to do with him, and more to do with shouldering one disaster after another of late, buckling under the weight of it all. This seems like one thing too many, and her defences, weakened by everything else, have crumbled, and there's nothing she can do to keep a tidalwave of memories from careening around her brain.
She's treading water, breathing it into her lungs, drowning a little bit at a time.
She stares at the shadowy ceiling, sifting through the heap of thoughts burying her, each one a weight she's carried, the load mounting up over the years.
Her father throwing her brother out she was thirteen, because he'd committed one crime too many in his quest for money for drink (hypocritical bastard– he gambled away just as much himself). Her Mam not stopping him, insisting it was for the best. She's never been able to forgive them, even when Joey's urged her to consider things from their perspective.
Roger disappearing from her life when she was twenty, compelled by his own misdeeds to flee, not even stopping to consider the hole he ripped from her when he went. After three years of taking care of him, feeling, for once, that she'd been happy even if it meant paying his bills and bailing him out and picking up whiskey bottles off the floor, she'd been left riddled with emotional bullet wounds she's never recovered from.
Dancing the same dance with a handful of lovers, falling for Roger clones repeatedly because they reminded her of her brother, of what she was missing. Thinking Shifty was a bright spot in her life, discovering he fit the same mould, ignoring her common sense and giving into dysfunctional familiarity until she'd found herself staring out the window of her flat, terrifyingly aware that she was on the verge of giving up, that if she didn't get away from Shifty, the only alternative left was just slipping off the window ledge and ending it.
Finding an unexpected dependability in Joey Boswell, but antagonising him at every turn, thwarting his attempts to love and reassure her. Rejecting him repeatedly until she'd nearly lost him, refusing to marry him until he'd promised a hundred times over he wouldn't leave her, fighting him over having children in case he used them as a replacement for Roxy's son Oscar. Biting his head off every time he suggests she look for a job that doesn't leave her with so many scars. Wondering, worrying, if one day, he'll have enough of her taking everything out on him, and disappear.
Realising, when he allowed Oscar Hartwell back into their lives only to betray them, that in spite of his best efforts to convince her otherwise, she will never be able to trust him. That his relentless promises are not enough to keep her secure in him.
And then, after that tenuous bubble of happiness shattered and left her struggling to stand, Shifty's death had come down on her like a tonne of bricks, forcing her to her knees.
She's been on her knees for the past six years, barely getting by, and throughout it all, the constant artillery of complaints, punches thrown and insults hollered in her face from the other side of her counter have kept her down, taken with her a bit more energy with which she might have fought back. And perhaps it's the combination of all these things that have allowed her to be crushed by Jack's situation, or perhaps it's the thought that, somewhere out there, she's got a brother as well, and has no idea if he's alive and well, or the fact that Shifty's dead and she can't bear to lose another person, or it's just that she can't cope with one more piece of bad news, but she's been floored, stomped into the concrete, and she can't force herself off the ground.
Everything is overwhelming her at present, and it's invading her mind every time her head hits the pillow.
She has to go to work tomorrow, has to get through a whole day of fending off abuse, playing the villain for the greater good, and she's not even going to be rested to do it.
Joey comes in around two, goes through his usual performance of trying to undress and navigate the darkened room without making any noise.
'No point,' Martina grumbles.
'Again?' She can hear the frown in his voice. The bed shifts, Joey's arms snake around and under her.
'Geroff.'
She doesn't want to be touched right now, even if it's an attempt to soothe her. Joey's overheating her, and she's tempted to elbow him off. He's not in her good books, though she can't explain why. He's not there enough. His there-ness is suffocating. These facts contradict one another and are both true nonetheless.
'Okay, sweetheart, okay,' Joey lets go of her. 'What's wrong, Martina? This is the fourth night running you've not slept properly.'
'Is it? I wasn't aware of that blindingly obvious fact, so thank you for bring it to my attention.'
To his credit, or perhaps his detriment, Joey is unfazed by her snapping at him.
'Sweetheart, that's bad, even for you.' He strokes her shoulder.
'Joey, will you get off?! I don't want your 'ands all over me when I'm trying to sleep!'
Joey murmurs an apology, turns away from her, sighs himself to sleep and leaves her awake and miserable.
Oh, God, you could lose him if you go on like this.
She tries to push the thought away but it stays, another nasty voice mingling with the vicious memories dancing in her head.
It unsettles Joey, being in a hospital, even when he's just here for a cheery visit. Birch Ward isn't a bad place, and Jack is out of the woods, recovering from a successful operation, simply awaiting discharge now, and he should be thankful. But that bloody disinfectant smell is bringing back vivid memories of Grandad attached to drips, and Shifty in a cold metal tray, and possibilities that frighten him just as much as the past.
Yes, Jack's got a bit more weight on him than he should, and yes, Joey supposes, the genetic predisposition was always there, but hearing his younger brother has suffered from a heart attack was a frightening wakeup call. God, he's glad they didn't lose him. Joey remembers the sheer terror of receiving that phone call, hearing Shifty had deliberately caused the horrific car crash that had killed him. Of seeing him there, cold and lifeless, and having to hold back his tears and vomit and force his trembling hand to sign to acknowledge it really was Shifty lying dead in that drawer.
Joey had gone through two years of tumultuous therapy to cope with Shifty's death. Martina had refused to go with him, and as a result, Joey is more or less at peace with it, while the torment of it sank down inside Martina, another weight holding her soul down, an addition to the many she hasn't addressed over the years. She has a haunted look in her eyes more often than not, and he's not sure how many more emotional upheavals she can take. She's been faltering more often over the past few years than she used to, took Jack's situation almost has hard as his siblings have.
In spite of that, she's been bloody fantastic. She always is when there's a family crisis, is an astounding pillar of strength for Joey. He just wonders though, after seeing her try to hide the havoc Shifty's death wreaked upon her, whether she's just pretending to be strong, because he needs her to be.
He can't dwell on that now. He has to keep reminding himself – he is just here to brighten Jack's mood now. Everything is all right, everyone can calm down now; the worst is over. He'd better get in there, do the best he can to cheer his brother up, before he's kicked out again. He probably hasn't got long, before that frosty-faced nurse shows up.
(Are you all one family? The ward sister had asked in disbelief, finding twenty or so people still clustered outside Jack's room after she'd issued her family only decree. Joey's smooth we are united for one of our own hadn't got them anywhere, and she's been determined to keep the number of visitors down, with the result that they're all rostering themselves an hour at a time, surreptitiously switching over before she can notice.)
Jack's sitting up in bed today, with the best smile Joey's seen on him in a while now.
'Look at you, then, son! The colour's comin' back to yer face! You'll be takin' on the world soon.'
'Ah, cut it, you. All day long I've 'ad one or other of yer givin' it all that about how great I'm doin'. As if there's nothin' else to talk about! Tell me summat normal.'
'Normal,' Joey says uneasily, sitting down in the chair by his brother's bedside. 'Right.'
He wants a distraction, and Joey does his best to oblige.
'How's your Belle, then?'
'Little terror,' Joey grins. 'You know. Thinks she knows more about the world than God Himself.'
'Welcome to the teenage years,' Jack grins back. 'Our Ryan's more or less grown out of all that, thank God. Fun's just startin' for you.'
'It's already doin' Martina's head in. She's fighting an uphill battle tryin' to keep Belle from swearin' her head off every five minutes.'
'Been there. Speaking of, how is the Little Dragon?' Jack's nickname for Martina, more affectionate now than it used to be. 'Busy tramplin' dreams and unleashin' terror from behind her counter, is she?'
'Yeah.' He answers with a smile in his voice, but he wishes she wasn't. He wishes every day that she wasn't, that she'd acknowledge the significant role it plays in her tenuous mental state, but it's no good trying to convince her.
'Me Dad's legacy, eh?' Jack says, patting his bandaged chest after their shallow bit of chit chat turns into a long silence. 'Out of everything, why'd I 'ave to be the one who inherited the faulty ticker?'
His comment makes Joey think, briefly, about the legacy Freddie Boswell left them all with. Adrian is somewhat tone deaf to the plight of others, banging on about the Arts degree he's doing while in the background, Irenee works long hours as a sales rep to put food on the table and his kids fend for themselves. Aveline inherited Freddie's inability to cope with the domestic. Billy (no, Bill, he insists they call him now) inherited their father's flighty ways, waltzing in and out of the lives of various women while never leaving Julie Jefferson alone to recover from him.
And then there's Joey. He's got his Dad's devious streak, that's obvious. Has improved on it, even. He's done well for himself in the underworld, and more recently, from carefully-concealed cybercrime, laundering enough money to support a family while still pretending he's unemployed and claiming Jobseekers. He's successful, but devious all the same, even though he doesn't actually need to be. There's less urgency to resort to whatever means possible to support his family. And Joey realises, guiltily, that he likes being devious too much to give it up.
Dodgy inheritances, all.
'Eh, it's gonna be all right now, you know,' Joey tries to slip on the big brother gloves again. 'The operation's all over and done with, you'll be home tomorrow…Leonora's talkin' about gettin' you on a healthy diet; you'll be chargin' around before you know it!'
'Oh, God. A healthy diet. She's gonna finish me off, isn't she?'
Jack's trying to joke around, but it isn't really working when he's got a drip in his arm and a slightly glazed look on his face.
'Ah, it won't be all that bad, will it? Leonora and Ryan waitin' on yer hand and foot…twelve weeks, they said, and you'll be good as new.'
'Oh, God. Twelve weeks.'
Joey realises he's not making things any better.
'Look, son…' he tries.
'All right, that's enough!' the ward sister is back. 'You are overwhelming him. He's not supposed to have this many visitors after open heart surgery! One after the other, non-stop, all day…he needs to rest!'
Joey shoots Jack an apologetic look as he's escorted to the door.
'He's gonna be okay, isn't he?'
'He'll be perfectly all right – provided he doesn't have a stampede of guests interfering with his recovery!' She sounds pointed, irritated, and so Joey meekly desists, lets her propel him out.
'Now listen 'ere, you – '
If Martina's daughter ever uttered the four-letter word this youth has just hurled at her, she'd be washing Annabelle's mouth out.
She remembers the days of little child of joy, from the likes of Mister Wilson, back in the old DHSS, frosty-faced cow from the housewives with their never-ending list of stolen washing. The insults have got filthier over the years, people less afraid now to say what they really think.
She'd eye-roll it off, tell him to think of something more original to say, but today, Martina hasn't got the patience.
'D'you not understand the life or death situation of the workin' man? If I can't get me car fixed, I can't deliver the goods to me customers, and if I can't do that, I can't go on livin', can I?'
Oh, he's pushing her patience today.
Jack's in hospital recovering from open heart surgery, and she's stuck here when she should be there, Shifty's death has bubbled back into her mind, and this jumped up little bastard has the nerve to complain about life or death because he can't get repairs done on a car he doesn't need.
'Couldn't you use a bicycle?'
'And how am I supposed to carry –'
She's heard these excuses so many times; has a counterargument for every single one.
'– a wheelbarrow, then.'
'And how would I look pushin' a wheelbarrow around?'
'If it's life or death, then surely how you look is secondary to yer own survival?'
She gets a few more lovely words thrown her way. Martina grits her teeth and waits til the onslaught is over.
'Mister Harman – '
'I wouldn't expect you to understand. Unfeeling robots they put behind these counters– I wouldn't expect you to care about the likes of us, struggling to survive – '
Struggling to survive is just too much. Martina gets up quietly, starts closing her counter up. Her claimant looks up, surprised, keeps on ranting, where d'you think you're going, I'm not finished yet, but she takes no notice, disappears out the back for a break she's not supposed to have.
She ends up in the smoking area, even though she doesn't smoke, breathing in the stale air that signifies someone's just put one out and wondering if perhaps she's missed a trick not taking up the habit. Wonders briefly if it's calming, or perhaps uplifting. If it makes you feel anything other than grey, with hints of black thrown in.
Every day is the same; a mire of heavy clouds and compassion fatigue born of seeing too many deserving cases suffer and too many undeserving cases take it all, and too many of both camps taking out their frustrations on her. There comes a point when you have to stop caring for your own sake. Martina spends most of her time after thirty years here speaking in a monotone, only bothering to bring out her sarcasm or anger if she's forced on the defensive.
She can usually take off her mask as she's leaving for the day, push it all back inside her. She'll go home to Joey and Annabelle and bloody Fat Edgar, their overweight Alsatian, and focus all of her mind on them, and keep the demons at bay.
Sometimes, though.
Sometimes the abuse is too much.
She's still got the scars on her wrist from the woman with long nails who'd grabbed her arm, twisting it roughly as she shouted in her face. She's still got the cigarette burn on her forearm from a bloke who hadn't taken kindly to his claim being rejected. She gets a ringing in her ears every so often from being hollered at from close to.
The invisible scars are worse. Being told she's personally responsible for someone's grandmother's death (she knows it's not true, but the words stick just the same), being called every name in the book when the GFC hit and there was only so much she could do for the masses that swarmed in. And whoever graffitied Arbeit Macht Frei on her desk, along with a great black spray paint swastika, was just taking things too far. That one cut deep. She fancies she can still see it, throbbing beneath the fresh paint on her counter, still there, still taunting her.
And today it's too much, because something, whether it be Jack himself or just a cumulative assault, has forced a crack in her emotional vault wide open.
She leans against the wall, fingers clenched tightly around her mobile in the hope that clutching it will make it ring, and it'll be Joey on the other end.
She remembers the days when what she dreaded most was an appearance from Joey Boswell. When she dreaded the word greetings coming her way, followed by him striding in with his leather and gold and bleached hair, when she seethed as he flaunted his illegal earnings in front of her, teased her, sparked a powerful lust within her even as she hated him.
Sixteen years with Joey Boswell have wiped any fantasy version of him from her mind. He's not as infallible as he thinks, nor diabolical as she'd once believed – he's a mere mortal, with a bit of an ego and a moody streak when it suits him. He's as vain as his sister, dressing too young for his age (is there a male expression for mutton dressed as lamb? Because he's it), showing off about the four Jags he now owns. He's as hypocritical as they come, still insisting vegetarianism and leather are compatible. He can be mind-numbingly shallow (to the point where he's come over all passionate about ridiculous things, such as insisting white gold is the world's worst invention because it doesn't 'look gold, so how will anyone know you're wearing gold?') He can be a bit too touchy-feely with his affection, invading her personal space more often than she'd like.
And yet she loves him so much she thinks sometimes she might shatter from it.
And together they've produced a child. She can't resent Joey's dodgy benefit schemes anymore, because without him irritating her all those years, she wouldn't have her little family now, a silver lining on the perpetual cloud of her existence.
Belle is visibly her daughter. She may be tall and lanky like Joey, she may have Joey's Roman nose, but she's got Martina's eyes and mouth, Martina's disapproving stare, Roger's ginger hair, Martina's long fingers and small ears. A voice very similar to Martina's, as well.
But when Annabelle opens her mouth, she's obviously Joey's daughter. Verbose, bit of a smartarse, cunning, talking circles around you until you give in. Up to her neck in devious little schemes of her own. Bloody obnoxious little mare.
And yet Martina loves her so much she thinks her heart might burst sometimes.
But on dark days, she looks at them, her mobster husband and wannabe-mobster daughter, happier in their risky schemes than she has ever been in fifty years of careful living, and wonders what would happen if she just…faded away into nothing, and left them to it. Wandered off into the mists and unmoored them from her. Stopped holding them back.
Back from what, she wonders. She isn't sure. They love her. She has more of a family than she'd ever hoped to have, and she does appreciate them. She just wonders, even now, if it's too good to be true. Joey's already proven, by contacting Oscar, that she's not enough for him. And she's already pushed him to his limit so many times, she wonders if somewhere down the track, there's a last straw for him that'll end what they have.
She should be with him now. She should bloody well be with him, and she doesn't know if she wishes she were there to support him, or to assuage her own insecurities, but she wishes it all the same.
Martina momentarily considers how much trouble she'd be in should she simply slip away now and leg it to the hospital before anyone notices she's gone.
She doesn't, though. She doesn't go back inside, either.
She just stands there, inhaling the last of the tobacco scent in the air until she can't smell it anymore.
It takes Joey a while to spot his silver Jaguar XJ – it's a bit unremarkable, compared to his other three Jags, but it suited his mood today – and when he gets there, he sits in it for a moment, debriefing.
Good visit, Jack in high spirits considering – a lot to be thankful for. He shoots off a few texts – to Aveline, who's taking first shift tomorrow, to Adrian, urging him to update their Mam, to Martina, just to reassure her, to Belle, to make sure she got home okay.
He's about to start the engine and head off when his mobile bleats back at him, and Joey immediately reaches for it.
It's not Aveline, though, or Adrian, or Martina, or Belle.
It's Oscar Hartwell, and seeing his name pop up next to the little envelope icon makes Joey's heart sink.
Oscar, whom he loves almost as much as Annabelle.
Oscar, who did so much damage to the family he fought hard to build, in such a short time.
Oscar, who, like Roxy, seems only to turn up to kick him when he's down, to add another problem to his already suffocating pile.
He doesn't want to open the message, but something compels him to.
I need your help.
Joey's hand shakes. He tries once, twice, to send a reply, but he can't for the life of him work out what to write. Has no idea if this is a genuine plea for help, or another ploy for sympathy with a self-centred end goal in mind.
Not now. He's got enough on his plate, trying to get back to a sense of normality after everything that's just happened – the last thing he needs is another upheaval tipping the scales.
He pockets his mobile, decides he'll deal with it later, and heads home.
A text reading Jack's doing well comes through from Joey at quarter to five, and Martina breathes for what feels like the first time all day, gets the bus home without clocking off, and then just sits on the sofa, unsure why she's not processing anything.
Joey's reassurance isn't enough. The fact that Jack's still improving isn't enough. The ground still feels unsteady beneath her feet, her lungs still feel choked with the salt water of a thousand grievances. She can't close that door again, now it's opened – it's as if one blow too many has diminished her ability to push everything behind a wall and leave it there.
She breathes slowly, evenly, lets her eyes follow the pattern on the wallpaper. Listens to the steady rhythm of the clock ticking on the mantelpiece. Realises none of these things are calming her, just hypnotising her back into her own head, into the blackness within. She casts around for a distraction.
Edgar IV waddles in, barely able to breathe from the exertion, and flops down on the floor at her feet. Bloody fat bastard. Joey and Belle spoil him something awful, putting out a bowl every time he whines, and she's never seen an Alsatian so bloody greedy, in nearly a decade of Joey owning them (and claiming them as 'guard dogs'). He's a defective dog.
'Don't look at me like that,' she grumbles, when Edgar's nose inclines in her direction, clearly after something to get his chops round. 'I'm not gonna feed yer.'
'Starvin' him, you are,' Belle drawls from across the room, and Martina raises her head to regard her daughter. She's in Joey's leather armchair, legs slung over the arm, looking far too relaxed for someone who has at least two essays to do that Martina knows of.
Martina resists the urge to roll her eyes. Belle looks absurd, with her hair all different lengths and her daft long fringe and thick black rings of eyeliner round her eyes like soot. That's another thing she's picked up from Joey; taking her personal style to the extreme. Belle had laughed at old photos of Joey from the '80s, horribly blond with an earring, unaware that this God-awful emo look is exactly the same sort of thing; a hideous trend that will be embarrassing in years to come.
And she's playing on her phone, undoubtedly up to something, and not up to what she's supposed to be.
Martina aims a suspicious glance in her direction.
'Haven't you got schoolwork to do?'
'Already taken care of,' Annabelle slouches even further back in the armchair, her hair cascading over the other arm. She looks too casual for Martina's liking.
'Oh, yeah? Where is it, then?'
'Completed and neatly arranged in me satchel.' The answer is smooth. Rehearsed.
'What did you 'ave to do, then?'
She pinpoints the moment she catches her out. Belle hasn't thought that far ahead.
'Oh, just…this and that.'
A sigh whistles out from Martina's chest.
'Don't try and fob me off – you haven't done it.'
'It's not relevant to me future,' Belle protests.
'Ex-cuse me! What future is your education supposedly not relevant for?!'
'Organised crime.'
Cheeky little cow; she's smirking, deliberately being facetious. Not that that's any surprise, right little Boswell that she is. She's always been this way, and though it annoys Martina no end, she can't help being endeared to it.
Today, though, it's all Martina can do to keep calm. She's had more than she can take. And she doesn't think she can act normal, parental, for much longer.
'If I hear any more answers like that from you, I'll bat you round the earhole. Go and do it, Annabelle. I'm sick of having this argument with you every single night!'
Belle gives her an eye roll and a yeah, yeah, but she mercifully goes upstairs. Martina's not daft enough to think she's gone to even pretend to do her schoolwork, but at least she's out the room. Martina needs space to breathe. She's got to go with Joey to bloody Adrian's tonight – she's got only a short time to pull herself together again, and just now, it doesn't feel like it'll be enough.
He's afraid to answer his phone when it rings, but mercifully, it's just his Mam.
'Oh, Joey – twelve weeks before Jack's back to normal!'
'Mam, it's gonna be fine, just take it easy,' he soothes. 'He's got a good prognosis, they said. Bit of recovery and he'll be good as new, and you're only over the road, and Leonora's gonna take care of 'im…'
'I'm not sure that…posh hussy is capable – '
'Leonora's all right, Mam, really!' Joey insists, a laugh in his voice. 'Look – if you wanna be there for 'im, we can all come round tomorrow, give 'im a good guard of honour when he comes home. How's that sound?'
If there's one thing bound to assuage his Mam, it's a promise of a family get-together. Her pitch slowly lowers, and by the time he rings off, she sounds more or less herself. Joey quickly seals his earlier promise, shoots a quick Kelsall Street tomorrow, 1pm text to his siblings, as well as a firm he'll be okay to Nellie (for someone her age, she's adapted to technology incredibly well. The same can't be said for Martina, who loathes modernity in all its forms).
He heaves a sigh of relief, glances over at his wife and daughter.
Belle's lounging around, listening to music (mercifully through headphones. Joey can't stand her rubbish; it's always some miserable sods with black bowl cuts whinging about life). Martina is doing what she often does; crocheting aimlessly. He's been married to her fifteen years and never worked out why she does it. She'll take it up at random, churn out square after square, and then abandon them as if they don't matter once they're completed, and Joey will find them turning up in the oddest places later – under her pillow, down the sides of the chairs, in kitchen cupboards, one stuffed in the bathroom vanity cupboard amongst the spare bog rolls, once. It's an odd habit, but one he's never really questioned, because he knows he's got enough eccentricities of his own, and Martina on the whole is quite sensible.
Joey sighs. It's been a harrowing night. Oscar's text has him in turmoil. It never just rains, it has to bloody pour. He'd be tempted just to order dinner in, sit with his arms around Martina and spend a few moments reflecting on everything, but unfortunately for him, it's Adrian's poetry night tonight.
Adrian's head has swollen to an enormous size now he's doing a degree. It means every other week he's inviting various family members round, reciting the works of whichever poet he's currently doing an essay on and subjecting them all to an analysis of every word, and reminding them, insufferably, that he is a mature student now.
In spite of this, Joey attends every single one, just to lead by example, make a point that you support your family no matter what. And with everything that's happened recently with Jack, and what happened with Shifty when no-one was there for him, it's more important to him than ever that they stick together as a family.
He shakes his head, pulls on his leather jacket.
'You ready, sweetheart?'
Martina jumps.
'Oh. Yeah,' she mumbles absently. She stuffs another crochet square down the side of her chair, reaches for her handbag.
Joey frowns. 'You okay?'
Martina blinks again. It's as if she's on a two second delay. 'Yeah. Yeah, I'm…'
She trails off, and Joey frowns, but she's making her way over to the door as if everything is normal, and so he shakes his head.
'Enjoy yer night of boredom!' Belle calls from Joey's armchair.
'You stay out of trouble, okay?' Joey leans in to kiss Annabelle's forehead, flinching backwards when he gets too close and his ears are assaulted by the racket from her earphones. No wonder she's shouting; he can only imagine how painfully shrill the full force of it down her ear canals must be.
He reaches over and yanks them out her ears.
'Aw, ey, you'll make yourself deaf, listenin' at that volume.'
'Yeah, yeah,' Belle mutters.
Joey's eyes flick over to Martina, who's shaking her head. He sighs, smirks, and reaches for his car keys.
'Schoolwork!' Martina calls over her shoulder, a refrain as standard for her as next! these days, and follows him out.
Joey had hoped Adrian's would be a quick, quiet affair this evening, but no such luck. Irenee has gone to Cardiff to visit customers and attend a couple of networking events, and Adrian's youngest two sons, Harris and Davey, have disappeared somewhere, but Jimmy has hung around for his father's performance, flamboyant as ever and wearing a stupid cravat Joey wants to rip off his neck, and Billy has turned up, undoubtedly for the free biscuits Adrian has laid out.
Adrian clears his throat ostentatiously, announces why he chose this particular poem, and what his essay thesis is (it's got something to do with the apathy which pervades the world, whatever that's supposed to mean).
'Sounds dull,' says Billy, spraying biscuit crumbs over the carpet. Joey raises his eyebrows in warning, though he can't really blame his little brother. It does sound dull. Not only that, he doesn't understand what it means – nor, he suspects, does Adrian, really.
'Here, where the world is quiet, here, where all trouble seems,' Adrian begins dramatically, 'dead winds, and spent waves' riot, in doubtful dreams of dreams…'
Oh, God, this is shite, even by Adrian's standards. Joey reaches for a biscuit just to take his mind off what he's hearing, switches off.
Adrian gets through ten more dull, depressing verses, and Joey is barely listening (he doubts anybody is), but a couple of particularly morbid lines get his attention again.
'That no life lives forever, that dead men rise up never,' Adrian recites, 'that even the weariest river winds somewhere safe to sea.'
'Adrian, that is terrible,' Joey interrupts, because he has never heard anything so hopeless, so dreary, and he knows Adrian likes to find poets with dark, gloomy works to recite, but this is just appalling. 'What happened to hope? God? Heaven?'
'It's nihilistic,'Adrian says pompously, as if any of them know (or care) what that means.
'Does that have summat to do with the Nile?' Billy pipes up.
'Listen to 'im! I shudder to think that we share the same DNA!'
'Well, how do I know what all them fancy words mean?! I'm not a bachelor, am I? I've 'ad Julie!'
Billy's faux pas are usually unintentional, but they always rile Adrian up.
'For the last time, it's a Bachelor's Degree, it's not the same thing!'
'You're just as bad as Aveline, you are! I'm a model, aren't I? I'm doin' a fancy degree, aren't I?'
'Heaven forbid a man want to better himself.'
'I'm bettered!' Billy insists. 'I've got a sandwich shop and me own staff, and I don't make everyone come round and try me new sandwiches, do I?!'
'Well, don't come round, if you don't want to! I don't know why you bother – all you ever do is stuff your gob with my biscuits anyway!'
'Okay, cool it!' Joey intervenes. He's had enough. Every single time, they all act up and get on Adrian's nerves, and he retaliates, and the evening drags out…hang on.
It's then he realises Martina is being very quiet.
Martina, who comes to Adrian's readings just to heckle him, who loves to goad him with tell me again, what use is this degree you're doing gonna be, if you can't make a living from it?, who loves to remind him that for someone who's supposedly a poet himself, he spends an inordinate amount of time reading other people's poetry, and why is that, does he think?
He looks over at her. Her head is bowed, as if she's praying, her eyes lowered.
'Martina?' Joey asks. 'You still alive over there?'
'Sorry, I was just…listening to the poem.' Her voice is soft, faint. She raises her eyes to him slightly, and Joey sees a tear fall, then another, then more.
This is not normal. Martina rarely cries, and she's certainly not moved to tears by Adrian's dramatic poetry recitals. It's so odd even Billy and Adrian stop shouting.
Adrian gazes at her, inspiration lighting up his eyes.
'Oh, God, I've made her cry! I've done it! I've actually found a poem that spoke to her!'
'Adrian,' Joey says as sternly as he can, 'that's not a good thing! And I don't think it's the poem, son.'
'It is the poem,' Martina insists, but Joey knows her stubborn ways too well. She's lying.
Adrian is looking at her in awe, Martina is looking at the floor, Jimmy is smirking, and Joey knows that he has to get her out of here.
'Prob'ly time we were gettin' back,' Joey says, reaching for his coat, trying to keep his voice casual, cheerful. 'Bit late, eh?'
'Eh – why –' Billy begins, but Joey doesn't let him get any further, shooting him the mother of all warning stares.
He claps Adrian on the shoulder in a farewell, ignoring the puzzled expression on his brother's face, doing a pathetic attempt at pretending that, if he acts like everything is fine, everyone else will believe it is.
The car trip home is silent, uncomfortable.
Joey steals a glance at Martina while he's sat at a traffic light. She's leaning against the passenger door, head resting on her fist, staring at nothing.
'Sweetheart,' Joey ventures, 'what's wrong?'
Martina doesn't answer him. She looks tired, frazzled, the rings under her eyes markedly darker than normal. Joey wants to reach for her, only at that moment the light goes green.
'I know it's not that stupid poem,' he tries anyway, clutch coasting so he can focus a bit more attention on her.
'It was the poem. It was too much, that's all.'
Joey risks going off the road to turn and frown at her.
'Too much for what?'
She doesn't answer.
Joey's frown deepens. 'Because of Jack?'
Martina hesitates, and then sighs quietly. 'Yeah.'
A part of him could swear she's holding something back from him, but then again, Joey thinks, she might not be.
'He'll be okay, sweetheart,' Joey reaches over, rubs his hand up and down her arm. 'He's bein' let out tomorrow. It's all over.'
He pauses.
'But I do know how you feel. God, what a thing to happen, eh?'
'Yeah,' Martina says again.
They're quiet the rest of the way home.
She takes three paracetamol in an attempt to force herself into a drug-induced slumber, but to no avail. Her mind is on fire, everything inside it razing to ash, and then reviving and burning down again.
Joey's got one arm slung over her waist, pinning her to the mattress, and she can't decide whether she wants to shake him off, or curl closer and hope he'll hold her a bit more substantially. There was a time when she always used to find solace with Joey, even if they'd spent all day shouting at each other over something trivial. Ever since Oscar's reappearance, though, being too close to Joey can have a sickening effect on her, should her mood darken too much.
And it's pretty dark now, a great black crow perched over her bed. Adrian's poem was crap, and yet, hearing his voice, like the voice of doom, reciting verses about the bleak hopelessness of life, just seems to have added fuel to the fire. No life lives forever, reminding her of what she's lost, of what she might lose yet. Joey seems fine now, more or less, and she doesn't understand how he can recover so quickly.
Shifty's gone. Grandad's gone. Her Dad's gone, and she never made it up with him, said a dutiful goodbye but could have done more, resents him even now for leaving her Mam with his gambling debts. Jack was nearly gone. They're dropping like flies around her, people she cares about. And Martina can't help thinking, wondering, if it might be time to find someone else, before he too is gone. If he isn't already.
When she and Joey got together, they'd both had open wounds, had crawled into each other's arms in need of healing. Joey has closure about Oscar now, even if he brought hell down on their household to get it. Martina wants closure too.
Jack's near-miss has left her feeling bloody horrible, everything she tries to push down sneaking back up the surface in a more out-of-control way than normal, and she needs to know – if she had that closure, finally, after all these years, would those horrific thoughts go away? Would she be able to cope with things one at a time, normally, the way everyone around her does?
She would have to, surely. She's insisted it to herself all these years. That if things had been different on that front, she would have been happier. A small voice tells her that's not the answer, and she pushes it away. She doesn't want to accept the alternative. It frightens her.
It frightens her half to death.
'I'm fine,' Martina insists the next morning when Joey checks in on her.
And to her credit, she does seem fine. She makes breakfast for them, kisses Joey goodbye and walks Annabelle to school, disappears off to work after that, as she always does. Joey frowns, ponders, thinks once again how impressive it is that she can pull herself together like that, and lets it go. Perhaps it was just that bloody poem after all. They've all been on edge of late.
He cruises on down to Kelsall Street, the concern reduced to a mild itch, which he can keep his mind off for the time being, and he greets his Mam and his siblings, tosses a tenner into his Mam's pot (he's kept the tradition in his own home as well, and Belle loves it), and sits down to lunch with his family, bowing his head in time for his Mam's prayer.
'We thank Thee, O Father, for Jack's health, and our lives, and we ask Thee, Father, to keep us safe and well.'
It's one of the shortest prayers Nellie has uttered in a long time.
'Oh, I do hope,' she says, not even noticing as Billy starts transferring food right from the serving dishes to his gob, 'he's not in too much pain.'
'I think he gets medication, Mam,' Joey says gently.
'Like that morphine stuff?' Bloody hell, a forty-year-old should have more common sense than this, surely. Joey should have given up wondering when Billy will grow up by now, but a stubborn part of him hopes it'll happen some day. 'People get addicted to that.'
'That's not gonna happen, son,' Joey insists, because Nellie's ears are pricking up.
'I read online about how they do bypass surgeries,' Billy says. 'First they cut – '
'Oh, God, first he single-handedly drags my achievements through the muck, then he splatters the gore of open heart surgery all over this table!' Adrian looks pale underneath his angry expression. 'If there wasn't enough suffering in the world, it all has to be broadcast through his gob!'
'Hey! Hey! All this talk about suffering!' Joey throws up his hands. 'Why don't we think about the joys in life, eh? Why don't we have some nice dreams, instead of focussin' on the nightmares? Now, what's everyone up to?'
'I've got a new frock for Oswald's Easter service,' Aveline pipes up.
'It's ages til Easter– ' Billy begins, and Joey stomps his foot under the table.
'Not your turn.'
'And I'm gonna serve tea and cakes to the parishioners afterwards,' Aveline goes on, and the others suppress shudders. Aveline's attempts to cook and bake are to be commended. The results, however, are horrific.
'Well I'm doing an extra poetry night this week, if anyone's interested,' Adrian says, and a collective groan rings out across the table.
'Someone needs to stop 'im!' Billy's gob is at the ready. 'He's got a bloody big nose these days!'
'Big head, Bill,' Joey mutters under his breath. He shouldn't be letting Billy get away with putting Adrian down like this, but after last night, he can't begrudge his youngest brother.
'You should've seen it,' Billy announces to nobody in particular, ' 'e bored Martina literally to tears!'
'She was very moved!' Adrian insists.
'Leave off, son,' Joey says quietly.
'She wasn't, was she, Joey!' Billy won't take no for an answer. 'She was cryin' from boredom – they 'ad to leave early!'
Adrian is on the verge of exploding with rage. He and Billy are more alike than Adrian cares to admit – both of them resorting to tantrums at a moment's provocation; Adrian just prefers to call it artistic temperament. And Joey doesn't want this conversation to go on, or it might pique the others' curiosity about Martina, and he can't explain that himself. He hastens to change the subject.
'Why don't we go over the road and see how Jack's farin'? Eh? Mam?'
Nellie is only too eager, and that thankfully puts an end to their conversation. They troop over the road, little mafia that they are, brave Leonora's feigned smile and gritted teeth that they have all turned up at once when he's supposed to be resting, and Joey focusses his efforts on a significantly more cheery Jack, and pushes everything else to the back of his brain.
'You wanna watch it, little sweetheart, or you're dead, you hear?'
Oh, God. If only.
Martina starts at how casually that thought popped into her head, jumping slightly, which, of course, provokes her claimant further. The threa doesn't scare her, but he assumes it has, and doubles down.
'Sittin' there raining down judgement on me for tryin' to do an honest day's work…'
'Which you didn't declare.'
'YOU WATCH IT! You've no idea what it's like strugglin' to survive – suffering day by day…'
Suffering seems to be everyone's watch word this week. Martina shuts her eyes, tries to let it wash over her and away as quickly as possible.
'DON'T YOU ROLL YOUR EYES AT ME!'
He's leaning in so close now she's getting spittle on her face.
'God knows 'ow many people 'ave died sufferin' at the hands of the likes of you! Starvin' in the gutter somewhere!'
She flinches, but this time it is from his words.
There are days when she can brush comments off without a second thought. When she knows people are stressed, frustrated, or trying to cover up wrongdoing, and she's just their punching bag.
And there are days like today, when she wonders.
When she wonders if they're right.
She finishes work at three today, but she won't have a chance to recover from it. Today's only going to get worse, because there's something she needs to do.
Last night, while lying awake, she made up her mind about something. Joey nearly losing his brother, both of them losing Shifty, has made her realise – if she doesn't find her brother soon, she likely won't get a chance to see him alive again.
But to find him, she has to visit someone else first, who she's aware she's abandoned. It's time she did something about that. Kill two birds with one stone and all that.
Martina doesn't really think she has the strength. It's asking for trouble, and she's already in trouble, and doesn't really understand why, and this could make things a lot worse.
She does it anyway.
'Lady Muck deigning to pay me a visit,' her Mam says when she opens the door to her. 'This is a red-letter day, isn't it?'
'Don't start,' Martina mutters. She sits down awkwardly on her mother's sofa, stirs sugar into the tea she's offered, unsure what to say after all this time. Unsure if perhaps this visit is too little, too late.
Her Mam's face has hardened. Her eyes – the same eyes copied into Martina's face, and Annabelle's as well – dulled, practically lifeless. No twinkle, no hope.
God, it's like looking at meself thirty years down the track. That's where I'm headed.
Logically, it's not true. She's got Joey, has managed to hold onto him for nearly fifteen years. She's got Annabelle. She's solvent; they're paying their mortgage off at a good rate; she shouldn't have much to worry about as life goes on (save Joey being arrested for petty crime, but she knows he's got a few safeguards in place for that, has helped him set them up). It still could happen, though.
'Well, I'd have reason to, wouldn't I? Two phone calls from you in the last decade, a child I've never even seen…'
Martina bristles. 'I invited you to the Christening.'
She hadn't bothered to turn up, what was more. Martina has never stopped taking this as a personal affront, has used it as the basis for a number of I told you so-s directed at Joey over the years, when he's asked if she wants to invite her to things, or played the you don't do that to family card.
'Out of what? Duty? How was I supposed to go, anyway, sweetheart, behind your Dad's back? Anyway, I don't hold with all that.'
'You do,' Martina insists. 'You're C of E. Unless something has changed in the last…'
'Thirteen years?' her Mam says venomously. Martina flinches, but she supposes she deserves that.
'Has it?'
'No. But I don't hold with infant baptism.'
That's something she's never heard before. Something she knows Proddies don't follow, because Oswald does baptisms (Aveline loves to go, regardless of whether she knows the kid, to coo at the babies), because Nellie has never recovered from the betrayal of Francesca's Christening. It's personal, Martina realises from the resentment in her Mam's voice, though she doesn't understand it.
'Why?'
'They didn't make up their own mind, did they? So why bother?'
'Because it's nice,' Martina says through gritted teeth. 'It's normal.'
'Well, you weren't baptised,' she shrugs.
Martina's spoon falls to the table. 'What? Why not?!'
'No hope for you, even baptism couldn't make you fit for St Peter's book. '
Martina bristles. 'Hilarious.'
Her Mam shrugs. 'Look, I didn't want you tied to one or the other and suffering for it. When I met yer Dad, the fuss people put up you wouldn't believe, him bein' one and me being the other. I didn't want you being raised into the feuds, when it's all the same God anyway. It's just not…necessary. Thought you might as well make your own decision when you were older.'
'And do you know what that did to me?' Martina says crossly, even though a part of her feels guilty, because it never occurred to her there were good intentions behind anything her family ever did. 'It meant I had nothing to belong to. I just sat there while everyone else took sides and I was left out of both.'
'You could have chosen your own side at any point, Martina! Or better yet, I hoped you'd be happy accepting both of them as truth. You believe – you know – what's right…isn't that enough?'
'Not in a city where everyone has a clique.' Martina sighs. She didn't even realise she was angry about this til now, has always touted her both and neither position with some degree of pride, makes scoffing noises when the two factions in this city start having a go at one another. It's only now she realises that pride was compensation. She wants to be something. The fact that she was never baptised makes it worse; she'd always assumed that somewhere down the line holy water had touched her infant head, that deep down, she was something.
'That's…' she decides to cut off this thread, because it's not getting her anywhere. 'That's not why I came here anyway.'
'Why did you come?'
'Because…' Martina struggles to get the words out. 'I need to know….have you…' It's still too hard. Thankfully, even after all this time, her Mam knows her well enough to work it out.
'I know where Roger is, yes.'
And Martina's heart starts to pound.
'How…'
'I'm honestly surprised you didn't ask sooner. Or at least didn't work it out. Martina…do you really think someone can hide from the police their entire life?'
'Ah.' That answers that question. 'Prison.'
'He was. For a while.'
'How long?'
'They caught him about a week after everything.'
That's not what she meant, but it startles her all the same.
'A week?!' Some daft part of Martina had assumed he'd lain low for a long time – well, forever. That that was the reason he stayed away. It had to be. If he'd done his time and got out, why didn't he seek her out? A stab of pain hits her. She's going to cry, she realises. Not right now, but at some point.
'And how long…how long was he in for?'
'Fifteen years.'
'What?!' He borrowed some money and didn't pay it back. He was part of a burglary. That doesn't add up to fifteen years, it makes no sense…
'Martina. You really didn't read anything about him over all these years?'
Martina is ashamed to look her mother in the eye. 'No.' She doesn't read much news about anything.
'Doesn't surprise me. You're wilfully blind where your brother is concerned. I'm not going to go into that. You don't know what it does to a mother to hear that…but it was more –significantly more– there was something else he did while all that was goin' on. Something he didn't think anyone could forgive him for.'
'He didn't kill anyone, did he?'
'No.' The no is worse, because there's a short list of options, and it's narrowing.
'I don't believe this. I don't believe any of it.'
'You don't know what people will do, sweetheart, when they're addicted and get desperate. When he got out, Martina…he couldn't come to terms with it. Moved around from place to place, got back on the bottle…we tried to help him best we could, when he asked, but there's only so much anyone can do.'
She should be dwelling on some of the far worse shocks her Mam's just dished out, but she can only focus on one thing. When her Mam was 'paying her brother's whiskey bills,' which Martina had taken to mean she was actually paying her dad's gambling debts off, because her brother was gone, maybe she actually had been…
He's been around all this time.
Fifteen years he's been a free man and he never thought to find me…Martina tenses in anger. Fifteen years he's been in contact with you and you never thought to tell me where he was…
She doesn't realise she's said all this out loud until she sees her Mam's raised eyebrow.
'Don't you blame me, sweetheart. It's not my place to go spillin' out his business. That's for him to decide – and he asked me specifically not to mention where he was to you.'
Martina feels herself twitch.
'But you knew what it did to me.'
'I knew what hangin' around him did to you, Martina. You always looked the other way where Roger was concerned. He brought out the worst in you, and you defended him even as he was doin' it. You rolled over and let 'im take your income, you picked up after him, he was keepin' you from getting anywhere in life, because you were staying down at his level to keep an eye on him. And you were doing well for yourself after he went… good job, respectable life, your own flat…I didn't want to spoil that for you by giving you the chance to throw all that away. And neither did he, for that matter.'
'And don't you think,' Martina says, livid now, 'that that should have been my decision?! I know what I can handle, and I could've helped, I…'
'You never helped, Martina – you enabled him. You were just as bad for him as he was for you. Neither of you were going to make yourselves better if you kept on like that, you looking the other way every time he did something wrong, paying for his mistakes so he never 'ad to learn from them…Roger recognised it. And it nearly killed him, keeping himself away from you, and it nearly killed me and yer dad, keepin' it from you even if it meant you decided to cut us from your life…but it was what was best for you, and for him, keepin' the two of you away from each other.'
'And what about when I was thirteen and needed him – and Dad threw him out on the street– '
'Yer dad threw him out because he wanted you to grow up normal – he was aware of what his gambling did to me, and to you and Rog, and he was aware your brother was heading the same way with drink. And it was for Roger's sake as well – he wanted him to stand on 'is own two feet and look after himself, even if that meant forcin' him to.'
She ignores this.
'How can you just make decisions like that on my behalf when –'
'What if you saw your daughter in that situation?'
'I – ' she falters.
As much as she's loath to admit it, Martina knows she's right. Because of Roger she's had, for far too long in her life, a soft spot for people who do her wrong. Even now, a small part of her misses Shifty, even though a life with him nearly ended hers. The lovers before him were similar. And she loved them because they reminded her of the first person she loved who did her wrong. Joey's the only one who doesn't fit the pattern, and she thinks it was sheer dumb luck that he's a stubborn obnoxious bastard who pursued her relentlessly, because if it hadn't been for him, she'd be alone or with another Roger clone, causing her one hurt after another. If Roger had been around, it could have been worse again still.
She would never wish a life like that on Annabelle.
Martina doesn't know, necessarily, that she'd lie to Belle, but doing whatever she could to protect her…that she understands. She just doesn't understand how anyone could try to do the right thing and still cause so much hurt.
'Where is he?' she insists. 'Is he still alive?'
'Just.'
'What d'you mean, just?!'
'I spoke to him on the phone last night and…he didn't have long, love.'
Something explodes in front of Martina's eyes.
'Did it ever occur to yer to mention he was dying?! Or was I just gonna readit in an obituary one day?!'
'He asked me not to – '
'Oh, don't give me that.'
The Boswells tell each other everything. It would never occur to Nellie Boswell to keep something so important from one of her children. It would never occur to Joey to ask her to. They're constantly in each other's business, and it had irked her when she'd married into them, but she's used to it now. To be thrown back into how separate, how secretive her own family are is a painful shock, an ice bath.
'How was I supposed to tell you anything, sweetheart, when you only speak to me on your terms? Perhaps if you'd contacted me more than twice in the last thirteen years, if I'd 'ad some way of reaching yer…'
She can't really rebut this one. She lowers her eyes, ashamed in spite of her resolution to remain angry.
'I don't 'ave the strength yer dad did. Go and see him if you want. Don't say I didn't warn you,' her Mam scribbles down some details, almost viciously. 'I don't know what Roger'll think now I've betrayed his trust and all.'
'Betrayed his trust?!' the words are bile in Martina's mouth. 'And what about mine?'
'I never had yours to begin with, did I?'
She supposes she can't argue with that. It occurs to her that a lot of the relationship issues she has with her family stem from her own refusal to trust them.
No, they're not. She forces that thought away. They're because of Roger. Because her parents threw him out when she was young. Because she needed him, when they didn't want her around. Because he disappeared after wreaking havoc in her life. Because even now, her Mam knew where he was and didn't tell her. Would have let him die and not tell her, out of some misguided attempt to keep her 'safe.'
It has to be. It's not her. It isn't.
Is it?
She snatches up the paper her Mam shoves at her, hands shaking, and makes for the door with as much haste as she can manage.
'Will I see you again, or is this it now before I die?'
Martina hesitates, looks back at her.
'No, you will.' Her tongue moves awkwardly in her mouth, as though numb. 'I'll…I'll bring Annabelle, next time.'
'I'll believe that when I see it.'
'Why…' she shouldn't, but it falls from her lips anyway. 'Why didn't you care what it did to me?'
'Martina,' her Mam's voice is hard. 'You only see what you want to see. You were determined that nobody cared about you except Roger, so you made it true in your mind. It didn't matter what anyone said or did. You ignore anything that doesn't fit with your black and white view of what people are. I saw you overlook things Roger did – to you – because he could do no wrong in your eyes. And you ignored anything yer dad and I did to show you we cared – because you decided for some reason that all we ever did was try and get at yer. And as for what it did to you, you never stopped to consider what you did to any of us. I suppose that doesn't fit with your idea that the world revolves around you and your perpetual misery.'
Martina's mouth purses, but she can't say anything in her own defence. Because it's bloody true, and she's been in the wrong longer than she wants to acknowledge, but if she admits that out loud, her self-loathing would overpower her.
'I see,' she says, nearly choking on her own dry throat. Her eyes prick. 'I – er – '
'I just hope, Martina, that you don't treat your husband and daughter the way you did us.'
She tenses.
'I don't.'
Her Mam delivers the killer blow as she's walking out the door.
'How do you know you don't?'
Joey's done well this afternoon.
A few false supplier invoices to companies he hates (he gets a kick out of getting his own back on the meat industry, companies ripping off the young, poor and gullible, and jewellers specialising in white gold), couple of bandwidth attacks, watching sites crash and burn, sending coded texts to the blokes who paid him to do it and watching the balance in his alias's account go up – easy money. It doesn't give him the satisfaction in-person jobs do, gives him a bit more guilt, but his working day has given something he desperately wants– flexibility.
Working from home has enabled him to keep his mobile by his side, in case Jack and Leonora need anything, and he's taken eight calls from his Mam on the house phone, reassuring her all is well, ducked out at three to collect Belle from school.
Martina's out somewhere, which had surprised Joey– Martina never goes out under her own steam – but it's meant he hasn't had to hide what he's doing, so in a way, he's thankful.
He's starting on his next assignment when his mobile explodes into life, a tune Joey doesn't recognise. Belle's probably changed it again. She has a habit of expecting her parents to understand pop culture references neither of them care about.
Joey checks the number.
Oscar.
God, it's Roxy all over again. The calls to ask for a favour, or to remind him how much he'd let her down, always asking too much, taking too much, never satisfied after snatching from him more than he could give.
It breaks Joey's heart Oscar has turned out the same way, and even though he hasn't seen or spoken to Roxy in over fourteen years, he still feels a white hot rush of rage at her. Oscar was a lovely lad, once. Roxy destroyed him.
This is all he needs, when Jack's still recovering, when Martina's in one of her down periods.
He answers anyway.
'Hello, yes?' Joey is aware he sounds brusque. He's wary, and rightly so.
'Joey?'
'Oscar,' he keeps his voice pared back, which is a difficult feat.
'Joey,' Oscar is exultant, breathless, which doesn't help Joey's case. It makes him feel that treacherous surge of love for the young man that is – was – is his son, the type that makes him make a fool of himself. 'I haven't heard from you in ages!'
'Funny, that. Seein' as how I only hear from you when it's me wallet you're after.'
'Oh, don't be like that, Joey.' He's got a male voice, a London accent, but if Joey didn't know better, he could swear Roxy was talking. 'I thought you understood.'
'Understood what, Oscar? The fact that someone I love like me own son sees me as a cash-point? That you weren't satisfied with what I gave yer and tricked me into sendin' more? That you pretended to my daughter you were interested in gettin' to know her as a sister and it was all a front to get at me?'
That one had stung Joey worse than any of Roxy's attacks, had blasted a hole in his heart. Martina had blown a fuse. It's a good thing Oscar hasn't set foot in their house for four years – she'd likely kill him if he showed up again. It had been a pretty heavy blow to their relationship, and Joey's not sure Martina isn't still harbouring a grudge over it. He doesn't blame her, though. He can't think about it himself without gritting his teeth.
'Oh, that's it, blame me. I'm not the one who left, got himself a new family and forgot the people he left behind…'
Joey sees red. Typical Roxy tactic – guilt trip if ever he saw one, hitting where it hurts, a sadistic twist of the truth.
'Oscar – you know that's not true. If I hadn't cared, I wouldn't have kept trying – and I've got eleven years' worth of solicitors' letters as a testament to how much I tried. And as for me leavin' Roxy, I…' he stops short. No matter what he thinks of her now, Joey tries not to slag off Roxy in front of Oscar. It would be stooping to Roxy's level.
'I had to.'
'Oh, yeah, you had to.'
'Look, what do you want?' Joey is impatient. 'Cause I'm tellin' you now, son, if it's money you're after…'
'I thought you would understand – evidently, you don't. Forget it, Joey.'
Oscar hangs up. Joey stares at his blank phone screen for a moment, shaking with frustration. He hurt the family he came from for Roxy's sake; seems history is trying to repeat himself, her son trying to push him to hurt the family he built for himself. And yet that guilt is still throbbing, much as he knows Oscar was trying to manipulate him.
He longs to sit with Martina and pick it all over with her, as he used to do when Roxy, in the early days, reared her head when she wanted something from him. Martina had been so calm and composed, had been the comfort and reassurance he'd needed while he tried to handle it. She'd helped him fend Roxy off, delivering a few harsh warnings to his ex-wife – but surprisingly enough, Martina had never been concerned about infidelity where Roxy was concerned.
Oscar, however, is another matter. Martina had been terrified to have children, lest they become a replacement for Oscar, had insisted they stop at one, Joey suspects, because they had a girl. She's insisted on knowing every time Joey tried to make contact, had lost the plot when Oscar reappeared on the scene and almost immediately took advantage of them.
And Joey knows that's in part a protective streak towards Annabelle, but a part of it, he suspects, is that Martina has been always pretty vocal about feeling unwanted as a child. (Joey's not sure Martina's perception isn't skewed there, but Martina's always been determined not to let that happen to Belle, and he respects that).
He decides he might try anyway. Martina being strong for him, helping him sort out his problems, sometimes helps sharpen her focus, helps her back out of her own head and into the here and now.
It's a bit of a selfish justification, really, but he's not sure what to do.
Martina comes home deflated, even though she's been given life-changing information. It's as if knowing, as if hearing yet another thing in her life could have been better, but wasn't, has pulled a shutter down over her brain again.
She lies in bed that evening, all but paralysed by it, her chest being slowly crushed, feeling the weight not just of this, but of everything.
Joey is changing in front of the full-length mirror in their room, studying his physique and grumbling while talking to himself, or perhaps her – she isn't sure. He doesn't care sometimes, as long as his gob is engaged. It's something about bloody Oscar, from the sounds of it.
'Joey,' she says softly.
He blithers on as though he hasn't heard.
'I should have listened. I was always good at that. I always listened to me family back in the day; it was built into me; have I lost it? Am I…'
Joey doesn't notice the irony, Martina thinks bitterly. She needs him to listen now, and he's talking over the top of her.
'Joey, I need to talk to yer.'
'Am I just missing something important, Martina?'
'Joey, I don't…you and Annabelle….you're everything to me. Even if I don't…show it.'
He's still not paying attention.
'Joey, my brother might be dying.'
No response even at that. Roxy's bloody son is probably asking him for money again, for him to be this distracted. She feels that wall come up between them again.
He won't help her. Martina feels her eyes prick. She could have done with some of Joey's inane Boswell wisdom right now. She could have done with Joey, full stop. Not a half-hearted non-attempt at listening.
Joey's looking at her now, but it's too late. She's not going to bother repeating herself.
'Sorry, sweetheart – what were you sayin'? I didn't hear.'
'Of course not,' Martina says, turning away from him, shutting her eyes. 'Of course not.'
God, she hasn't felt this way in a long time. Utterly hopeless. Suffocated by the grey blanket over her face. She'd thought all that was over, that finally, she'd found some happiness. Now that seems to be evaporating, and she's falling back into that dark place that had seen her standing in front of a window in the flat she had shared with Shifty, wondering how far down it would be if she'd opened it and gently slid out. Only she hadn't. She'd forced herself to come back to the light, to start anew. She doesn't have the strength for that now. She's fought too many battles, been let down too many times, and the diminishing of something good is more painful a sting than any that have come before it. Why have joy, only for it to eventually be tainted. It's sapping her energy.
She just can't do it anymore.
She has to go and find Roger. With her last ounces of emotional strength, she has to find out. Either the hole in her heart was caused by him, or it wasn't. If the former, she has hope, that this can all go away. That she might re-find that happiness again, in time. If the latter…she doesn't want to think about what she would do then.
It doesn't bear thinking about.
Joey wakes a few times during the night, agitated. Jack's fine, and yet there's a lingering worry born of seeing Shifty dead, that compels him still to be concerned. Oscar's clearly manipulating him, and yet he can't shake the guilt at not rolling over. Martina had been distant when he tried to talk to her, and yet he can't trace the cause of this particular dip in her mood.
'I don't,' Martina suddenly mutters in her sleep, cutting into his thoughts.
Joey turns to look at her. She has nightmares often – they both do – but she hasn't said anything in her sleep for a long time.
'I don't,' she whimpers again.
'Shhhh,' Joey whispers gently, pulls her against him. Martina's arm immediately snakes up around his neck.
She hasn't done that in a long time, either. She's unsettled – profoundly so.
'I don't, Joey,' Martina presses closer into him, her grip tightening.
'I know you don't,' Joey murmurs, even though he has no idea what she's dreaming of. 'I know.'
She's quiet after that, settles on his chest and dreams silently, twitching occasionally.
Joey rubs her back absently and thinks. Was he in the wrong, hanging up on his son? Oscar isn't really his son, but Joey can't help the piece of him that still holds the little git close to his heart.
Was he too harsh in his refusal, stressed out by everything that's happened with Jack, too concerned with Martina's latest downturn at Adrian's that he was blind to something? Or was he completely in the right? Has he just got too much to worry about that he's overthinking everything?
He doesn't know, and he's still pondering it when he eventually falls asleep, fretting over a distant problem, unaware that the one closer to home is about to blow up in his face.
Not a lot happened yet, but it will, and quite rapidly, and we'll reach the point Joey was at in the prologue next chapter, which hopefully I'll have finished the edit on soon. I'm aiming on splitting this into four parts, and then I've got a new fic planned which is a bit of a fix-it for the final episode, although that may start coming sooner if I need more time on this one.
Hope everyone has a safe and Happy Easter.