I find it hard to write chapters that aren't driven by Ste, so that's why this chapter took a little longer, sorry!
XOXOXOX
Steven looks thoroughly fucked, Brendan thinks to himself idly the next morning. He's fast asleep beside Brendan on the floor of Amy's living room; a sofa-cushion stuffed under his head and a pink woollen throw tossed over his naked body. His hair is gelled by sweat and sticking out in mindless places… his face still holds a mid-sex flush and he looks in the deepest sleep Brendan's seen him since getting out of prison. Three relentless rounds can do that to a person.
And there's a smile on his lips. It's faint in his sleep, but instantly recognisable. The same smile he slept with in Dublin after they finally got back together after all that time. The same smile he slept with when the kids adopted Brendan as their "daddy". It's a 'things-are-looking-up' smile. And that's a heavy weight on Brendan's shoulders already with the pressure he instantly feels to maintain it.
He creeps from under the throw, groans lightly as his back aches. Whose idea was it to sleep on the fucking floor? He finds a couple of post-its and a pen and scribbles down a note for Steven when he wakes up:
"Going to sort out the flat. Pick you up later. Good luck with Amy."
He adds an "X" at the end, because stupid little things like that used to mean something to Steven, and perhaps they still do.
It takes an astonishing thirty minutes before the magnitude of their 'engagement' overcomes him.
He's driving at the time, and a call comes through with an old photo of Steven grinning to signify it's from him.
"Hey," Brendan smiles into the phone.
"Hiya." Steven says. He sounds chirpy; his voice ringing with a nostalgic old enthusiasm that Brendan hadn't realised how much he missed until now.
"How ye feelin'?" Brendan says with a smirk. Sore, he bets.
"Fine." Steven says, "You gonna go see Cheryl today?"
"Might do. Why?"
"Are you gonna tell 'er then? About us? Bein' engaged?"
And that's when it hits him.
FUCK.
It's not that he doesn't want to be with Steven forever – of course he does. Not that he doesn't just naturally expect to – he does. It became clear at some point or other over the years of being on and off that he and Steven were inevitably going to end up dancing this dance until they were old or dead.
But when Brendan had bought the ring all those years ago, it had been one hell of a big deal. He remembers even now the way his palms had sweat and he couldn't even fucking eat on the way to the ring store because what he was doing was such a fucking huge deal. He was committing his life to somebody. A man. Steven.
He'd decided then that when he proposed, he was going to do it right. The one thing he might actually be able to do properly in their relationship (first time for everything) just like Steven deserved. The ring stayed in the inner-pocket of his suit jacket for weeks and despite a number of close calls where Steven went rummaging for cash or gum, it remained a complete secret.
And then Amy had shown up. And the kids had been taken. And everything seemed to start spiralling out of control until that day… that fateful day… "Brendan Brady, I am arresting you on suspicion of sexual assault."
Brendan pulls over the car, closes his eyes and rests his head against the steering wheel. Fuck. Things had spiralled out of control last night as well. A fucking engagement amidst all this shit? A gay ex-convict and his drug-abuser lover, who together have a series of criminal records, a burnt down flat, an ex with a dangerous vendetta, and not enough supportive relatives to even qualify a witness.
And Brendan had only wanted the fucking wedding because it was to be their opportunity to do things right, and for Brendan to prove himself.
He cares about these things. Weddings – stuff like that – they actually mean something to him; vows before God and the conventional commitment he'd been bought up to believe in. It's more than just an act of wild romance, which he suspects is all Steven sees it as.
"Jesus." He mutters. They may as well just get hitched in a borstal and be done with it now, which is neither right nor romantic.
Steven calls again just as Brendan is walking up the steps to his flat.
He rejects the call… dips under the police-tape that sections off his expensive but diminished suite.
They were right when they said it was burnt to a crisp.
There's nothing left of the place.
Andy and his crew must have done a good job on the petrol to cause this level of damage so quickly. Brendan can't even make out where his sofa or TV was. It's all just ash. The bedroom is gutted. All his clothes, possessions, paperwork gone. The few photographs he had, gone. The letters he kept from Steven, gone. The engagement ring, gone.
And all because some crack-head pimp can't let an old blood feud lie.
"Your insurance should cover most of it." His solicitor drones on when Brendan goes to visit him. "But I can't expect it to come through in the very near future so... you're going to be looking for somewhere to stay, perhaps for quite some time."
"I was gonna get a new place anyway." Brendan dismisses, nonchalant.
"You're being incredibly casual about this."
"It is what it is."
"And you're sure you don't know who could be responsible?"
The guys off his head if he thinks Brendan's letting the police handle this. The police can't get anything right.
"No idea." He says seriously. "But I intend to find out."
XOXOXOXOXOX
He gets another call from Steven as he's driving to the council block. He has half a mind to reject it again… guilt already consuming him that he's going against Steven's wishes and paying Andy a visit.
But he glances down at Steven's grinning face bleeping at him from his phone and sighs in defeat, answering, "Hey, you okay?"
"Hiya." Steven says. His chirpiness has left him. He sounds nervous now.
"You alright? Why'd you keep callin'?"
"Yeah I'm fine." He sounds a little forceful in being fine. A little eager to make conversation, without having any real purpose to do so… "How was the flat?"
"What flat? There is no flat."
"Oh right…" Steven mutters, "So there's nothin' left at all then?"
"Nope."
"Where are you now?"
Brendan swallows. He's a good liar, but it's not something he enjoys with Steven. Steven who shows so much faith in him and loves him despite everything he's done… he doesn't deserve to be lied to.
But he has to, about this.
"I'm at the solicitors, it's taking ages. Is Amy not there?"
"No, she's not back yet." He says, sounding even more fretful than before. "She can't stay away forever though, can she? She has to come back some time!"
"She'll be back. Just stay put for a couple more hours."
"Yeah. Hey… you've not told the solicitor about Andy, have ya? Cos you know what'll happen and…"
Steven continues to talk but his voice blurs to a mere distraction as something catches Brendan's eye: Andy's cronies… leaving the flat. There are three of them – all as brutish and fucking ugly as he remembers them, and one of them holding a lead with a pitbull terrier at the end of it. Brendan almost laughs at how fucking cliché these arseholes are. Ticking all the damn boxes to guarantee maximum impact. They even push their way past a couple of twelve-year-old hooded lads on the iron stairs. Acting the big men, even to a couple of kids.
Fucking jokes.
"Brendan? Are ya listenin'?!"
"I gotta go, Steven."
"Oh right. Ok, well I'll see ya lat…"
Brendan hangs up the phone, gets out of the car. He has to move now if he stands any chance of getting Andy alone. He's not scared of those muppets, but he'd rather attempt to do this properly, man to man, without the chorus of druggies bleating on in the background.
When Brendan knocks, the door opens on a chain… Andy's unfocussed eyes leering through the gap to see who's disturbing him.
Brendan feels instantly sick at the sight of the bastard. The snake who put needles in Steven's arms, and a gun in his hands. Who took his boy and smoked out the soul that Brendan already tainted – leaving nothing but the wretched remains. Who pimped him out to his friends; brandishing his body like a spliff to anybody who fancied a quick drag.
Brendan forces a smile onto his own face, but it's stiff and cold.
"Brendooooo!" Andy leers, faintly surprised but his voice laced with a stoners laziness, "I was wonderin' when you'd turn up here."
"Andrew." Brendan drawls. "Think we need a chat. Don't you?"
Andy shuts the door, and Brendan listens to the sound of the scraping chain as Andy unlocks it. He pushes his fists into the pockets of his suit… needs to stay calm and not follow his instinct, which is to strangle the living daylights out of that cunt as soon as he can get his hands on him.
Then he's face to face with him again… and Andy's wearing a tracksuit with the sleeves rolled up to his biceps; brandishing his needle-marks as blatantly as he brandishes his tattoos.
He outstretches his arms to Brendan and hisses, "Come for some more 'ave ya?!"
"I was thinkin' we'd leave the knives this time. I've had enough of childs play."
Brendan steps past him into the flat and is immediately overcome with the smell of sweat and sex and cigarettes. He glances briefly into the living room as he passes… they're not alone. There are two women here, one watching TV and one passed out with a bong dangling from her bony arm. Fucked, both of them. Half-dressed. Neither one will even notice he's here.
"You've not bought my boy with you, then?" Andy asks as he shuts the front door.
Brendan feels shiver run up his spine… his fists tighten inside his pockets.
But he keeps his voice steady… practically calm… as he responds, "Thought we should do this just us two."
He glances at the bedroom door and remembers the last time he was here, dragging Steven's sweat-soaked, shivering, limp and violated body from the bed.
He should have killed Andy there and then.
"I'll be wantin' him back at some point." Andy slurs. "We got unfinished business."
Brendan flinches distastefully.
"Oh yeah? What's that then?"
"S'tough to find a fuck as good as that one – I'm sure you know what I mean."
"Huh." Brendan mutters – a short noise tainted in disgust and contempt.
What he wouldn't give to wipe the smug sneer from this mother-fuckers face. To watch the blood drain from him in fear as he's forced to confront his own foolishness. Foolish for ever daring to treat Steven the way he did.
Instead he meets Andy's smirk with a laugh… short and stiff at first but then it grows more manically. And Andy's laughing with him – a battle of sick humour – and who's going to snap first?
Brendan's fist moves lightning-fast, and he feels ribs crunch under the impact… Andy sinking to the floor in agony.
That stops them both laughing.
Immediately.
The hospitalities are already over.
"What you gonna do Brendo?" Andy wheezes from the floor, "Beat the shit outta me? Get banged up again? Don't think our Stevie would like that, would he?"
"He'd thank me for riddin' the world of a sick disease." Brendan hisses
"I 'elped him. Took 'im in when you left 'im high and dry. And he was very very grateful."
He emphasises 'very' in a way that makes Brendan's stomach twist, mouth go dry.
"Ye lookin' for another slap?" Brendan hisses.
Andy laughs, cold and bitter, "Yeah. He said you was the jealous sort. Said 'e preferred 'em like me; liberal, y'know? Give n' take."
Brendan releases a breath he didn't realise he was holding – his patience wavering, his fists trembling. He drops to his knees so his face is right up close to Andy's; daring him to continue speaking.
"Used to talk about you a lot actually." Andy says plainly.
Because he knows… he knows that'll spare his life another few seconds. That Brendan won't be able to resist knowing what.
"Said you was a fucking PRICK." Andy spits.
A bit of flem flies out and catches Brendan on his cheekbone.
But behind Andy's determined ferocity, his resolve for aggression… is fear. Brendan can smell it on him. Not so fucking tough without his buddies backing him up. Not so tough now the bloke can't even see or talk properly – too overcome with his accelerating drug habit.
Brendan slowly raises two fingers… flicks the man's spit from his face.
The fear makes Andy talk more, and it's satisfying.
"Used to go on about ya like a fuckin' parrot. Called out your name when he was fuckin' one of the lads once – the guy must've shared your greasy cock!"
Brendan hits his face this time. Quick – hard – relentlessly powerful.
And blood spurts, and it's all Brendan can do to not hit again, to hold back. He's not here to kill the guy… he can't lose control… has Steven to think of…
"Now listen to me," He whispers hushedly in Andy's ear, "You're not gonna come anywhere near my property again. You're not gonna come anywhere near me again. And you're not gonna come anywhere near Steven again – do you understand me?"
"You think I'm scared of you, Brady?"
Blood dribbles from between his lips as he wheezes it.
He has every fucking reason to be scared.
"Andrew," Brendan says steadily, "I said… do you understand me?"
Andy's got too much pride to back down – would rather die than admit defeat, and Brendan knows it; has encountered many like it before.
He's a fucking fool. A stupid arsehole who's pushing his luck and continues to push it further:
"Our Stevie will be gagging for a needle any day now. He knows where his bread's buttered, Brendo, d'you know what I'm sayin'?"
"No, what're ye sayin'?" Brendan chimes, teeth grit, indulging the man whilst readying his fist for his final blow.
"I'm sayin' if you want him back, you're gonna have to get used to 'im with a needle in 'is arm and my cock in his mouth as a fee."
"Oh, is THAT what you're sayin?" Brendan whispers. His whole body is shaking with pent-up anger and the difficulty of suppressing it. He feels near hysterical; his skin trembling with the desire to silence, damage, slaughter.
"S'alright, Brendo." Andy says, "I dun't mind sharin'."
Brendan's fist slams straight in the mans temple, and that's it – his head lolls backwards as if entirely separate from his neck.. like a rag doll... like a goggle-eyed puppet as his pupils roll around before his eyes shut and he falls limp.
The man who abused and exploited and used and raped falls heavy in Brendan's arms – blood pouring from his nose and decidedly unconscious.
For a while there's nothing filling Brendan's ears except white noise… a loud whistling of anger and adrenaline.
But voices begin to seep in… a woman's… and one of the girls from the living room is shrieking and crying, "Oh my God! Alicia – call an ambulance, look what this fuckin' psycho's done!"
Brendan rises silently and moves towards the front door… numb… removing himself from Andy's body strewn across the floor.
He doesn't feel any regret. Only that justice is done.
And once he's away from the flat, all he can think of is Steven. Of his shining eyes and beaming smile and shameless sentiments. And how that scumbag took all of those things… and what he did with them.
He pulls up at the nearest bathroom facility. Washes the blood from his hands. And then the nearest jewellers to find a proper replacement for that engagement ring.
