Page 155 of Into the Dark
“So he’s alive,” Jake says quietly. “I thought maybe…I dunno…I heard they were sending him to Afghanistan, so I thought.”
He thought his brother might have died. My heart aches for him. Physically aches. Christ, I want to go to him. But I’m afraid he’ll push me away again.
“You don’t need to reconcile with your mother, Jake. But maybe you could think about speaking with Jon. Your nephews…they’re around Caleb’s age.”
He shoots me a look, but it’s not angry anymore. It’s…hopeful. I’m not sure.
Then: “I wished her dead so many times,” he says. “I hated her for so fucking long that when I stopped thinking about her it was a fucking relief…”
I’m not breathing now, scared he’ll stop talking.
“I was nine, ten maybe, and she was having one of her parties. They always seemed to last fucking weeks. At first, I used to think they’d moved in and they were never going to fucking leave. Jon and I knew better than to get in the way when she had people over, so we’d fuck off out or stay locked in our room. This one, though, Jon was somewhere else. He got a job helping at a garage. They paid him shit, but it meant we could eat sometimes.” There’s absolutely no emotion in his voice. “Eating was a gamble anyway…you had to go past them through the living room to get to the kitchen, and sometimes, when you got there, there was fuck all to eat anyway, so it wasn’t even worth it. It was either dry cereal or dry toast, but the toast took too long and the grill didn’t always work—not if the gas bill hadn’t been paid—and I’d get a smack around the head or a nasty comment when I passed if she felt like it. Sometimes, if I was lucky, I’d only have to climb over people passed out.”
He hasn’t looked at me yet; he’s still staring straight ahead at some point on the wall beside the TV. “I still remember the smell of those parties. Grass and alcohol and strangers. She’d play her music day and night—sixties music that still makes me feel sick when I hear it.” He clears his throat. “One time, I hadn’t eaten anything proper for two days. Usually, when the food ran out, I’d go to a mate’s house and his mum would feed me—felt sorry for me, I reckon—but it was summer, and they were away on some caravan holiday to Portsmouth, and so I couldn’t go there this time. I didn’t know where Jon was. Sometimes he went away on jobs for a few days as it paid more, and I didn’t know when he’d be back. My stomach hurt—pain like I’d never felt before. I thought I might be dying. When the music stopped, that was always a good indication it was safe to go down. That meant they’d passed out or it was over. I crept down the stairs and poked my head in. The heat hit me first, the fire on the wall cranked up full even though the rest of the house was freezing. We were on the fourteenth floor of a tower, so even in summer the place was fucking freezing. But the room was boiling-hot, like a fucking sauna, and they’d all passed out. I checked the beer cans first, lifted anything that wasn’t empty and drank it, and kept going around the room, climbing over bodies, mainly men, trying not to wake them and expecting a hand to shoot out and grab me any fucking second.”
The image is vivid in my head, and my heart beats so fast I think I might pass out.
“I spotted her purse on the other side of the room by the couch. Not like there was going to be much in it, but I didn’t need much for milk and cereal—a few quid, maybe—so I kept going. She was passed out facing into the fire, so if she rolled over in her sleep she’d get burned. It wasn’t an open fire, just one of those ones with the bars inside, but she’d burn her face or her hair, and I stared down at her for ages trying to decide if I wanted that to happen.”
His voice is lower now, and even from here I see his eyes darken.
He swallows. “I reached out and turned the thing off. Was only wasting gas. Her purse was next to a little cupboard I knew she kept her drink in. I think I stopped breathing when I got there, terrified the sound of me opening it might wake her up. Then I realized she might wake up ’cause she was cold because I’d switched the fucking fire off. There wasn’t much in the purse, some coppers and a fiver, and so I took it. I put it back the way it was and then opened the cupboard and grabbed a quarter-bottle of vodka, looking down at her every fucking second, expecting her eyes to be open and glaring at me. When I passed the fire I contemplated turning it back on, but it was loud to turn on. Pilot light was a tough fucker too—Jon always did it. So I just crept back out out the same way I came in.” He lets out a quiet breath, exactly like I imagine he must have done as he stepped out of that living room all those years ago.
“I felt like I’d achieved something. But I also felt like I’d done something so bad that maybe I’d go to jail for it. Stealing from shops was all right, but stealing from your mum…that seemed more wrong to me. I hid the vodka behind an old chest of drawers at the bottom of the flats and went to the grocers in the middle of the estate.” He lowers his eyes and licks his lips. “When I got home, the music was blaring and everyone was awake. And she knew what I’d done.”
My lips feel dry. So dry. I feel sick too. I don’t want to hear what happened next. I don’t want to hear want punishment he got for stealing from his mother to buy food. I flatten my hand over my stomach and send a silent promise to our child.
“What happened?” I ask softly. It feels like hours since I last saw his eyes. Something sad passes over them, which makes me want to cry. There’s something so sad and so full of fear that while he sits there he almost becomes the little boy he was all those years ago.
“Nothing. Not right away. She let me think I’d got away with it.” He’s smiling now, but there’s something horrible in it. “I woke up with her leaning over me holding a knife to my throat.”
I gasp quietly, my hand flying to my mouth in silent horror.
“‘Where the fuck is it, you thieving little cunt?’ she spat. When I told her I’d spent it, she glared at me and moved the point of the knife so it twisted a little, and then she dug it up into my chin. She didn’t even know about the fiver—she was talking about the drink. She told me if I ever stole drink or money from her again she’d fucking kill me, make me wish I’d never been born.”
The tears are rolling down my face now—hot streams of guilt and pain and heartache.
“I just laughed at her. It made her more pissed-off. The tears were streaming down my cheeks and the blood was running down my throat, and I was laughing at her. It was funny. She’d make me wish I’d never been born? Fucking hell, that wasn’t a threat. That was a fucking fantasy. ’Cause I already wished that. I wished that every day of my fucking life. I wished she’d gotten rid of me like she always told me she should have done.”
I do move off the couch then. I go to where he’s sitting on the chair and kneel down by his feet to grab ahold of his hand. His scar, the one on his chin that I love, is because his own mother wanted him dead. The other scar on his face, from another woman who was supposed to love him. Rage and guilt seep out of me and pour onto the carpet.
“I’m so sorry. Jake, I’m sorry,” I sob. I press my mouth to his hand and kiss it. “I didn’t know.” I look up at the sadness on his face and the hurt in his eyes and shake my head. “I just wanted you not to hurt anymore. Please forgive me…” I’m openly crying now, a selfish, crumpled heap on the floor by his feet.
He sits up and hooks an arm under me like he does with Caleb, hauling me up from the floor onto his lap. I wrap my arms around his neck and cry softly against his chest, telling him over and over again that I’m sorry.
“It’s okay, baby. I know,” he whispers gently against my hair. “Shh, it’s okay. I forgive you. I’ll always forgive you…don’t cry. Shh…”
When I press my mouth to his, I almost pass out from the relief I feel when he kisses me back. He wraps his arms around my nakedness and squeezes tight as his mouth seeks comfort in mine. Then, with me held tight in his arms, he stands up and carries me toward the stairs.
He isn’t lying beside me when I’m dragged awake by the alarm. My eyes feel puffy and tight from last night’s crying, and there’s a knot of heaviness in my chest and in the pit of my stomach. I’m also a little sore from Jake’s rough-handling of me on the couch. What would normally be a delicious soreness feels tainted now. Because I don’t deserve it.
I hurt him. I let him down. I betrayed his trust. My reasons for doing so don’t matter. Not really. Not if it hurt him. What she did to him as a child is unforgivable to me now. Or at least, it isn’t my place to forgive her for it. What’s happening to her is sad, but her absolution won’t be by my hand.
I can hear him downstairs, the sound of moving crockery and drawers being opened and then closed again. I have an inkling of tension and dread at the thought of seeing him this morning, reverse butterflies the closest thing I can think to describe it. Where was his head when he first opened his eyes? How dark and angry did his thoughts get in the early morning light? Did he look at me and feel that betrayal all over again?
He said nothing more after he carried me upstairs last night. He stripped out of his clothes and got into bed then pulled me close to him. I fell asleep as he kissed soft, tender kisses across the back of my neck, stroking my hair in the same gentle way he does.
As I sit up in bed, the dread and tension are replaced by something else. Sickness. A churning, dizzying rush that bubbles up fast and shudders over the tops of my thighs and abdomen. It propels me out of bed and into the en suite, the bathroom floor hard and punishing on my knees as I lower myself down next to it and lift the lid. It feels less like a hangover and more like mild seasickness. Nothing comes up. Not a single thing. My head spins and my mouth fills with saliva, but nothing comes up.