kept seeing was my mum walking outside, wrapping her cardigan around her to stave off the night chill. Then he shoved her. The branded cunt fucking charged at my mum and trapped her inside the house. The fucking house that she loved. The cottage that she felt safe in. She took us there all the time to get us away from this life, a break from the firm and my dad, who only ever lived for this family, this fucked-up life.
And you’ll die alone if you keep doing it. Just like our dads did … Betsy’s voice circled my head. And you’ll die alone if you keep doing it. Just like our dads did …
I stopped at the door to my left. The door that I never let myself go through. I turned the knob, then stumbled through. The lights were off and his nurse had gone home for the night. My feet were fucking cement blocks on the floor. But I made them move. I took a swig of whisky and let it burn my throat as I closed in on my dad. On the man I hadn’t let myself get close to in over a year.
Everything smelled of antiseptic. The machines that surrounded him bleeped and pierced through my skull. I grabbed the footboard and held the fuck on. My eyes were on his covers, on the duvet that hid him from me.
“Look up, you pussy,” I said to myself, then forced my eyes up. I turned away when my gaze landed on his face. On his too-thin body that never fucking moved. Not even a finger moved. My hand shook around the neck of the whisky bottle, but I made myself turn back around.
“Kill him,” I heard my dad’s voice say, the memory barrelling into my head. I saw the man in my eyes. Saw him on the floor of the pit. Saw my dad stand behind me and put a knife in my hand …
“Kill him,” he said. I stared down at the knife in my hand. I was thirteen. I’d just turned thirteen. Charlie, Eric and Freddie watched me from the top of the pit. The knife felt heavy in my hands.
“Please, kid, don’t,” the man on the floor said. I looked at his face. He was bloodied and beaten, and he was on his knees.
“Look him in the eyes when you do it,” Dad said, his mouth at my ear. “Make sure he dies looking into your eyes—the future of our firm.”
“What did he do?” I stepped forward, closer to the man.
“He fucked with us. Ratted us out to an enemy. Some of our men died.” I felt it then. Felt the anger start to build. Dad said that no one ever messed with us, our family. And if they did, they had to die.
“Arthur,” Dad said again. “Kill him.”
I walked forward and stood before the man. I could smell the sweat and piss on his clothes. The blood. I lifted the knife as one of our soldiers ripped open the man’s shirt. I kept my eyes on his and pushed the knife into his chest, right through his heart. And I never moved my eyes away from him. I never moved my eyes from his as his mouth opened and he started choking on air. As the knife stopped when it reached the handle.
As he toppled over, and my dad put his hands on my shoulders. “Good, Artie. Real fucking good, kid.”
I blinked, and the memory disappeared from my head. I remembered feeling it then. I’d felt the darkness start creeping, the doorway opening to something evil, something that reached its talons into my soul and took up home.
That had been the night. That had been the fucking night that Mum and Pearl had burned. When I’d killed that man, that traitor, they were already ash and teeth lost in the cottage’s remains.
And you’ll die alone if you keep doing it. Just like our dads did …
Dad’s face was grey and sunken, nothing like the man I’d just pictured in my head. Shot by the fucking Russians. Ploughed down and only alive because I paid a fuck-ton of money to keep him this way.
No one ever came to see him.
He had no one outside of us. His mates were long gone. Mum and Pearl were gone. And me? I never came into this room.
… you’ll die alone …
I downed the rest of my whisky, and my head swam with memories. Of Pearl. Come