A/N:
Thank you guys! We love how close you're reading - you continually inspire and motivate us! Kabr's been barely able to keep away – even with her busy RL week, all down to you and your awesome words :D But life's still demanding that we take time away from Stendan so is still one a week.
We really hope you enjoy this chapter! This is like the second plot turn as it were so let us know :)
Chapter Warning:
Very angsty.
Scenes some readers may find disturbing (ha! I've always wanted to say that :P)
Chapter Fourteen – Brendan Brady
I worry about him every moment after he leaves with the twins. My chauffeur returns without a problem so I know they got to the station OK. But I can't stop thinking about them – worrying. Consistently. It's like I can feel something's not right.
The house is really quiet – like it can't get used to itself when he's not here. And even when Chez returns with the boys full Dublin-excitement it still doesn't feel right. And then he's here, on my doorstep, talking to Cheryl. He's here and his eyes are red like he's been crying, and I feel sick that something's hurt him again, that my protection has failed, again.
I promised him I'd always keep him safe and I feel so guilty.
And then Cheryl turns on her heel looks straight at me and I feel a new form of guilt work at the very centre of me, it's not new – it's been there my whole life. Just looking in her eyes I know she knows. And I know she's disappointed in me, yet again.
I get Steven away from the house and he tells me everything in one long row of jumbled words, like he always does. I can't make sense of a lot of it.
Until he breathes, "so now like I don't have no-one. No family, no bro or sis, no-" he stops like his words are broken.
I can't take this. If there was any justice on God's earth he, Steven Hay, would have everything. But he's been left broken by a world that doesn't protect him and I don't know what else I can do when there is more against us than all the power inside me.
I feel my heart struggling, not enough oxygen can get into my lungs and my thoughts blur – I hate this. Feeling out of control like this. I don't let myself feel like this anymore, it's this feeling that's left me with nothing but guilt. His hand presses against my shoulder as though he's trying to reassure me but all it does is cloud my thoughts because I want, no, I need to pull him to me and keep him to myself.
As I turn to face him something snags my gaze, the suitcase I gave him – the suitcase with the money in it. There is a lot of money in that bag, there is enough for him to get set up. And he can get a good job, boy like him – he has good GCSE's. He will be alright by himself. He could make a good life for himself, but he will keep coming back here as long as he thinks there is something to come back to – so I have to, I have to close off from him.
"What can I do ya for Steven?" I ask.
He starts muttering about that nanny thing, like that would work now. Like if he lived here he could be anywhere but my bed. I am so weak around him, the moment I relent everything around us will unravel and fall apart.
I tell him to go and then he says, "you do realise if I go, you're never ever gonna see me again?"
And I can't breathe past those words, I can't take this. I know I have never felt like this before. Things leave my life easily, seasons pass and nothing stays. But if I don't see him again, if I'm not around to make sure he's OK, something inside me will wither never to regrow. Keeping Steven Hay under protection – it's become an instinct.
"Ask me to stay with you, you know that I will, Bren please just ask."
Before I know it he's kissing me, and I have to succumb - he is everything. I let my mouth cup around his, feel the yielding bottom lip between mine. I keep trying to resist but every time I do our kisses grow in passion, like we have an infinite pool of desire and it's only ever going to get deeper. He keeps telling me things will be OK, that we can be together. And I want to – I want to so bad. My eyes reach for him, my beautiful boy, but it's at that moment I see Cheryl.
She's stood in the kitchen window watching us. And just with the look in her eye I know I can't have this. Even if a life with Steven could be beautiful I wouldn't deserve a moment of it – a man like me.
He reaches for another kiss but I push him back. And I break him. He slips on the ice. He's in pain. My self-hatred is instantaneous. I reach out a hand for him, but he refuses. He doesn't say another word, he just walks away.
***K&M***
You probably won't believe me but I haven't thought about him these last two weeks - life has that Christmas bustle; and let's just say that forgetfulness is a skill I have had a lot of time to hone. Cheryl keeps nagging me, saying I need to spend more time with the boys when it's the holidays. Apparently she knows it's hard but they need me more now than before, like missing my Eileen is the only thing bitter about Christmas this year. I don't go into the room with the Christmas tree and I haven't taken a sauna for weeks. Thankfully things are frenzied down the Loft - demands are high as they always are during the holidays. So the business has a monopoly on my time. And as I say, I've not really thought about Steven since he left.
Had an unexpected call from Foxy yesterday, he's back from Vegas early. Guess he's not spending Christmas with Katy after all. They don't see each other often now, Katy wanted to get away from ending up involved in the life her big brother led. He never meant to, but she sometimes got caught up in it all.
I met Katy at school, she was my first girlfriend. We were inseparable and I really did love her. One day she introduced me to her big bro who offered me some work at his club. I thought he was just doing it as a favour to her but he must have seen something in me as I was soon allowed to get involved in his other 'business'. Just little bits of selling here and there but one day it changed.
My stomach knots as I think about that day. It's like my memory has put a cloud over it, so that I can't see it clearly. For months afterwards Foxy would clarify exactly what happened. When I think about what I heard it feels like I'm underwater. It's like I know what was said, Foxy told me what was said, but when I recall the words spoken they are muffled…
But I do owe him, I owe him a hell of a lot and will forever be indebted to him. He took me in when I was sixteen and had no-one else. We continued to work together and as I grew up we became more like partners. He knew I could be as ruthless as him when it came to business. He taught me well and along with my natural desire to govern, made me the perfect accomplice.
When Foxy called yesterday, fucking irate because some of his eejits have royally cocked up, he knew I was the man for the job. So now I find myself here on Christmas Eve, me and Foxy standing outside the door of a small warehouse whilst Chez is at home with the boys.
I find my thoughts impulsively drift to them, to 'home'. We used to have a tradition on Christmas Eve – we'd tuck the boys up in mine and Eileen's bed with warm milk and chocolate chip cookies. Then we'd read them 'The night before Christmas'. Me, Cheryl and Eileen would put on a bit of a show all doing different voices – I would be the narrator, clearly, and Eileen and Cheryl would always have a little squabble about who would be Santa. It was good fun. I hope Cheryl's read to them tonight.
Foxy and I are dressed head to toe in black and our guns are poised ready. I can hear voices inside and my breathing hitches, my heart starts racing. I can feel my muscles start to tense as the blood flow to them increases. My mouth goes dry and I can feel the first sheen of sweat start to dampen my forehead. God I feel incredible, I love this rush of adrenalin you get when your body is forced into a fight or flight response.
I get the nod from Foxy and we kick the door open, coming face to face with five shocked men and a holdall full of our cocaine that his minions managed to lose. It doesn't take much convincing for them to hand it over. Nothing more needed than the use of my fists on one of their faces. They aren't professionals just some part timers who thought they'd got lucky when they came across Foxy's eejits. I grab the bag, sling it over my shoulder and we start to leave. My phone starts ringing, and I see it's Walker. Shit. Steven.
Before I even answer I know what he'll say - something bad has happened to Steven. It's Christmas Eve, he wouldn't be phoning unless the boy was in real trouble.
Oh did I not mention, I had Steven followed? Of course I did – who sends that sort of money into the world without some fail safe? But Walker hasn't said much recently so I thought things were OK. Maybe I just needed to believe that, maybe I should have checked in.
"Simon. What is it? I'm busy," I answer once we are outside.
"I think you're gonna want to hear this." He replies. "It's Ste, he's in trouble, he's not in a good way."
I stop suddenly, almost frozen to the spot. My heart starts racing, I feel a slight shortness of breath and I can't focus. Fear courses through my veins.
I take a moment and keep the panic from my eyes, from my voice, knowing what one sign of weakness would mean to Foxy.
"Brendan, come on for God's sake! Let's get outta here!" I hear Foxy shout.
I shake my head and suddenly I'm focused. Focused on getting to Steven.
"Sorry Warren, I've got to go." I throw him the holdall. "Job's done anyway."
"Brendan, what the-"
"Sorry, I haven't got time to explain." I cut him off and give him the keys to the van.
"Walker? You still there?" I ask.
"Yes, mate." He answers on the other end of the phone.
"Stay where you are and tell me everything."
As Walker starts talking I pick up speed and I'm practically sprinting to my car. I need to get to Steven.
"I saw him chatting to some posh bloke in a bar," he starts. "He was getting the drinks down him at a right speed. All paid for by this bloke."
"Go on."
"It's like they were waiting for someone, the bloke kept checking his watch. About ten minutes later, another bloke turns up. Average height, pretty well dressed – jeans and a shirt, nothing out the ordinary. He shakes posh blokes hand, they clearly know each other. Then he introduced him to Ste. "
"Just a sec, Simon." I tell him.
I'm at my car now, which I left in a car park a couple of miles away from the warehouse. I fumble with my keys and pop open the boot. I take my black driving gloves off with my teeth and throw them in the boot, along with the gun which I wrap in an old tea towel and make a mental note to lock in the safe at the club later.
I quickly change my jumper, which is covered in blood from rearranging that idiot's face. I flex my knuckles which are starting to bruise slightly. I jump in the car. Put Walker on speakerphone and accelerate, tyres screeching, out of the car park.
"Ok I'm back, keep going."
"Right. So Ste slurs a hello to this bloke who looks him up and down before turning and nodding at posh bloke as though he approves. He then hands posh bloke a small wad of cash. Who in turn hands him like a business card with what I think was an address."
"Then what happened?"
"Posh bloke leans in and whispers something in Ste's ear then shakes other blokes hand again and leaves."
"So is Steven still at the bar?" I interrupt.
"No. Shit, I'm sorry Brendan. They left and by the time I got out the door I couldn't find them. I had a drive round and saw posh bloke driving up and down this road that I'm in now a few times but he drove off before going into one of the houses."
"Fuck!" I bang the steering wheel hard.
"I'm sorry Brendan, I can keep looking if you want."
"Don't bother, I'm nearly there now. Just go." I see my knuckles whiten as I grip the steering wheel hard.
I take a deep breath and try to think.
"Walker?"
"Yep? I'm still here."
"Was there anything else? Anything else you heard, like a name or something?"
"No, I don't think-" he pauses "Oh wait. Shit, yes, Ste slurred posh bloke's name at one point. Called him Blake. Patrick Blake I think."
I press down on the brakes hard and the car screeches to a stop in the middle of the road. It's been a while since I've heard that name.
***K&M***
1983.
Brendan is 15, Warren is 27.
"Blake, Patrick Blake," this small blonde kid shakes Ethan's hand.
Foxy, me and some of his other kids are sitting on the brick wall by Dee river, watching. Ethan's like the protector of our gang – his dad's a cop so he can check out details, make sure the kids not gonna grass us up. Kids from school come up to us and say they wanna be in with Foxy, happens pretty regular. But they don't turn up like this - in their school uniform with their shoes actually polished, and their tie actually knotted, and their jumpers actually straight. Moron. I mean I'm skivving too aint I? But I'm not going to do it looking like that. Warren leans over knicks a chip, shares a look – he's thinking the same.
"Blake, Patrick Blake - I'm James," Ethan says,
"Hi, James."
Ethan pauses a little and then says, "yeah James Bond."
"So you slept with my sister yet?" Warren asks, digging me in the ribs, I pretend they're not bruised – I don't want the questions.
I cough a little, down the last of the can of coke, and kick the wall, hard. Katy's hot she really is, but every time we go there I freak out. Can't believe she told her brother.
"Treat em mean, keep em kean, eh Brendan? good plan!" Eoghan stands up for me.
He keeps doing that. I can't remember a conversation I've had with the gang in the last fortnight that he didn't join in with, pretty odd. He gives me these looks in the school showers after sport as well – creeps me out with his weird ferret looking face. Me and Warren have started to call him eggnog behind his back.
I try to smile at him.
Warren jumps up off the wall, goes over to Ethan, clearly bored of their little serenade.
"Alright Ethan give the poor boy a break," Warren laughs, his voice sounds like he's innocent and friendly – that's when you really have to watch yourself.
Ethan takes a step back.
"I'm Warren Fox," he says, sticking out his hand to be shaken by Patrick. The kid takes it gladly like it's a million pound note. "You probably heard about me?"
"Err yes, I have, sir."
Sir? Me, Eoghan and Ethan all share a look – this kids gonna last all of two minutes.
"N'Aaw," Warren mocks, his hand scrapes Blake's hair, rubbing like you would a dog.
We all stand up – we know what's coming.
"You sound nervous of me," Warren sings his voice sickly sweet, "are you?"
Patrick nods and Warren laughs. Then quick as a flash he's grabbed the school tie, pushed Patrick back and tied him around the lamppost with it.
Warren leans close to Patrick's ear, like he's going to whisper, he obviously doesn't though.
"Good, you should be, I'm nuts!" Warren shouts at full volume.
And then we all run away.
I go back a couple of hours later though, find Patrick small and shaking. I release him. I threaten him – tell him that if ever tells Warren I saved him I'd stab him, I say I've done it before – he doesn't need to know it was to one of Cheryl's dolls.
***K&M***
Present.
I hang up on Walker, tell him to go home. I'm going to sort this one myself. Now I know who I'm dealing with.
Blake's bad news. After that day he grew some balls, started giving orders, got a little too big for his posh doc martins. Warren let him in and he believed he really was one of the tough guys. Really we all just laughed at him. We'd keep him around to do the leg work and the dirty jobs, until we found out what he was doing to that Anna he was knocking about with. Over the next couple of decades his name would keep cropping up on the dodgy deals, so I knew he was still a low life. And now he's got his claws into Steven – my Steven.
What is he doing with him? I don't even trust myself to think too much about it because every time I do I feel my heart tighten and my foot press far too hard on the accelerator. I keep hearing Walker's voice, what he described, some sort of business transaction:
Ste slurs a hello to this bloke who looks him up and down before turning and nodding at posh bloke as though he approves. He then hands posh bloke a small wad of cash. Who in turn hands him like a business card with what I think was an address.
My heart constricts again - there's only one thing that sounds like that. I can feel the anger starting to bubble to the surface. I feel the tension in my jaw, my teeth grinding together with frustration. I have tunnel vision and the houses either side of me start to blur as I put my foot down.
I slow down as I realise I must have past the road Walker told me he saw Blake down. I reverse backwards ignoring the car behind beeping their horn at me as I reverse round them. I spot the road name and turn down into what looks like an average run down suburban street.
Its 1am and pretty quiet, a lot of the houses are dark and have no lights on. Most of them look like your average two bed terrace. I drive slowly looking at each house as I pass it. I don't see much apart from a couple kissing on a doorstep, two drunk girls searching for their keys to open the front door and a cat throwing up a fur ball on what is probably a neighbours wall.
I pull up to the curb, park the car, get out and cross the road. I can't hear anything suspicious, actually can't hear much over the sound of some awful trance music blaring out the open window of run-down looking end-terrace. I pass a house that has a small star-shaped light on in the window and next to it is a plate with a mince pie and a glass of Whiskey left out for Santa. There's also a carrot for the reindeer. It's Christmas Eve, even in streets like this. I keep walking until I stop at a house about half way down the road. It looks well kept, the small front garden is neat and house looks recently painted. For some reason it stands out a bit from the others. Looks less run down.
I try looking through the front window but the curtains are closed and I can't see anything except the faint glow of blue, maybe from a TV or something. I press my ear to the window but can't hear much, maybe a faint mumble of people talking. I gently push on the front door but it's locked. I need to get round the back so I jog to the end terrace and open the side gate making my way to the back garden. I quietly use the walk through, going through each back garden until I reach what I think is the house from the back.
I can hear faint music and as I walk towards the back door I realise its Christmas music. As I get closer I can make out a familiar rhythm, a chant. Fuck – it's that Wizzard song, you know 'I wish it could be Christmas everyday'. I can see Steven's happy grin, his innocent eyes as he enjoys pre-Christmas excitement with his siblings. My heart clenches – I can't explain it, but it feels like grief. I just know I need to get to him.
I look in the back window and see a little brown bottle of 'Liquid Gold', or Alkyl Nitrate if you had angina in the 1800's, on the window sill. Poppers is generally a club drug now. I've seen it around the Loft, mainly with the gay men. They said it increases arousal and desire and relaxes muscles, which I guess can be useful when in a rush in the club toilets. Now I know I've got the right place. I go to the back door and there's a sign next to a door bell which says 'Ring for Assistance." I press the bell and a few moments later a young lad, who looks a bit younger than Steven, opens the door. He beams at me with a smile that's laced with signs of cocaine. His nose is running and I can see the slight residue of white powder round his left nostril that he's failed to wipe off. His pupils are dilated and his eyes look bloodshot. He's fidgety but as he speaks he's pumped and confident.
Maybe I've got it all wrong and Blake's running some sort of drug op. I don't have time to realise I'd know about it if he were; or that Foxy would have almost certainly stopped it, if he were. There's one thing in this underworld we don't stop – don't get involved in.
"Hi, what services would you like tonight?" he asks in a strong cockney accent.
Why does that two syllable word 'services' make my skin crawl? I puff out a breath of panic. Getting to Steven that's all I need.
"I'm not sure yet." I say diverting eye contact, trying to look like a nervous client.
"Well why don't you tell me what you like and we can work something out? Whatever you wanna see, or try - I'm your man. Whatever the pleasure," Cockney flirts with me.
"I was actually after someone I met here before," I keep the pretence up. "He's about your age, light brown hair, blue eyes, skinny, Manchester accent."
I could describe him down to that cute little mole he has on his right arse cheek – but then something tells me this boy could as well.
"Oh, yeh, it's Ste you want, I think he's just finished his last client."
I've never had such a physical reaction to the word client before, but now it makes acid turn in my stomach.
"He's through there, in the room at the front." He says pointing towards a room down the hallway.
My heart aches and my fists clench in anger. If I could think this would be the time I realise I'm right – that this is my worst nightmare. But I'm not thinking, I'm working on impulse, my instinct to protect Steven.
I barge past Cockney and into the house and I'm in the kitchen. It's actually pretty clean, a few dirty cups in the sink, a few bags of unopened crisps on the side. I can see empty bottles of poppers thrown in the bin. More lined up on the counter like I saw in the window outside. I'm still trying to tell myself this is some form of a drug house.
I walk into the hallway, past a closed door where the Christmas music is being played from, although now I can hear groaning over the top of "I wish it could be Christmas everyday', playing on repeat. Noises of people having sex, everything inside me constricts and panic floods my veins. No, please…
As I get to the door of the room at the front, I slowly look into the room. It's got laminate wooden flooring, and painted pale blue walls. There's a bed side table with a lamp that has a blue light bulb, giving the room a bit of a sordid feel. The room's been freshly sprayed with some sickening floral scent that barely covers the oppressive, lingering, stink of drugs and sex. A bin's barely hidden by the window and it's full, literally full of dirty used condoms. In the middle of the room is a white mattress, tearing a little at the side, and the fucking covers got footballs on it, like it belongs to a teenage boy. My heart skips a beat and I feel a knot tighten in the pit of my stomach as there, sitting on the edge of the double bed, facing the wall away from me is...
The boy on the bed has his hood up, is crowded into himself and he's shaking like he's cold although it's got to be thirty odd degrees in here. His shoulders are hunched and his frame unbearably skinny. I can't see his face. I don't need to. I know it's Steven, I can feel it as every cell within me screeches.
I know it's Steven and I know what this is, I know what I left Steven with. I know Steven would have done the only thing he would have thought himself capable of.
I know Blake's porning out under age kids, and I know that Steven, my Steven...
When my thoughts are coherent it's anger that hits me first. Runs up from somewhere behind the slow burning grief, the ultimate disgust the habitual guilt and sparks from every nerve ending – takes over my very being. I didn't give him that money so that he'd end up here, so that he'd go right back to this. I didn't keep telling him how amazing he was, try to make him believe in himself for nothing, for worse than nothing, for this. I'm angry – at him, no I know it runs deeper than that but I can't process it yet.
I need him to know how angry I am.
I pose as a client, put on an English accent and say, "how much do you charge?"
He doesn't even turn around, his voice comes dry and hollow, "ten for a suck… twenty for a fuck with… fifty without."
Without what? Jesus – without a condom? What the fuck is he trying to do?
"How about eighty grand?!" I bark.
A tension runs through him as he works out it's me, you can see it like a ripple in every stringy tendon. Then he turns on his heel and stares at me – brave and solid and exactly like steal. He stands slowly, powerfully off the bed and there's this darkness in his eyes that wasn't there before, like there is nothing innocent in him now.
"Go fuck yourself Brady!" He shouts.
A snarl forms on his lips as he sniggers at his own joke, it really doesn't suit him.
He starts to walk away, but I trap him against the wall, my arms either side of him, fingers curled across the peeling wallpaper. His entire body tenses, his head drawing away from me, his body closing down, but in the hatred I gain a little bit of that pureness back. The pureness of a heart first broken.
You know I never intended for him to fall for me. All I ever tried to do was protect him.
"What happened to the money, Steven?"
"Gone innit?" He says, like it doesn't need any more explanation.
He won't look at me. I trap his jaw with one hand, demanding eye contact. I know my fingers are too tight in his flesh, I don't know if my intention is to hurt him.
"Care to explain to me how that sort of money just goes?"
He panics, not obviously, you'd miss it if you haven't watched him like I have. And then he tenses again, and spits at me, yes actually spits - effectively making me drop his face. He pushes at my arms but I refuse to let go, he pushes and pushes, his nails digging into my flesh, and then he's not really pushing anymore, he's more forcing himself into my arm, forcing himself to be held by me. And he sobs.
I stroke his back as the sweet childlike melody of that bloody Wizzard song plays, and he breaks.
He just says, "Terry."
"It's OK," I tell him. "It's OK Steven, I'm here now, I'll protect you I promise."