The ugly in me wants to destroy her, turn her into a monster like me so we can belong together, forever. Keep her in darkness. Fuck her in darkness. But I’m not gonna kill her beautiful.
I miss you . . .
44
ME
I flick the windscreen wipers on as the lashing rain cloaks my view of the road ahead. March has just started and it’s already in tears. A dark reverie, I think. I was left on the doorstep of the church near the end of this month.
I’m driving Max to school.
Jesus, I’m turning into a modern-day Ghandi. What next? Take a trip to the theatre and sing along to a fucking musical?
Amy did this. I blame her for turning me into a lap dog.
‘There used to be a princess in a castle who was in love with a prince.’ Max is reading from his school book. ‘But the prince was no prince, but a dark beast who was the kingdom’s enemy. Knowing it was their last night, the princess drew around his shadow, cast on her bedroom wall, so she would always remember him. That one day, when she would wish for his return, he would turn into a prince again and she would know him.’
Max peers sideways. ‘Tarek says this was how painting pictures was invented. He said the princess used the drawing on the wall to make a statue of the beast she loved, and that’s where art came from. Do you believe that, Shepherd?’
I look at the ink on my forearm. It’s an empty basket branded with a question mark. ‘Real art never comes from happiness, kid.’
It comes from pain.
Each tattoo a memory of another shit moment of my life. A patchwork of each fucked memory, those needle strikes boring into skin and made me feel actual pain rather than the ghosts I carry around in my head.
I drop Max at school, then check my phone to see if Fab5 has called me about club business. There’s nothing from him, but I find another voicemail message from the Mayor. He’s been calling every day, now.
And I’ve been avoiding him.
There are some things I don’t want to confront. Some things I never want to know.
I decide to pay him a visit. It’s gotta happen sooner or later. Yeah, I’m breaking a promise, and yeah, it’s gonna hurt Amy, but I push it under the rug with the rest of my worthless lies.
For a while, I wish I hadn't given Amy space. I wish I kept her with me and . . . what? I promised not to hurt her. Almost kept it, too.
I ring Fab5 and tell him to manage without me today. At town hall, a scrawny man with a receding hairline opens the door and lets me into the hallway. It smells dusty, like old books. He tries to take off my leather jacket.
Is this jackass trying to frisk me?
I’m sure he doesn’t need to stand that close to me, but I resist the urge to elbow the guy in the stomach or worse. I shrug him off, warning him never to touch my jacket — or else.
‘Please go into the waiting room there and I’ll go and tell the Mayor you’re here,’ he says.
‘I’m fine waiting here. Cheers.’
He grimaces, then goes through a set of doors. A few minutes later, he comes back wiping his hands on the seat of his trousers. ‘He will see you now.’
When I enter, the Mayor is positioned behind a large oak desk in front of a bay window. His blonde hair is receding. He hides it with a combover. He takes up his fountain pen to lend himself an air of authority.
I dislike him already.
Always did.
A rotten apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. It usually lands and festers right next to it.
There is a single empty chair in the room. Christian Earhart takes off his reading glasses and nods towards it. ‘Sit down, Shepherd.’
‘I’d rather stand.’ I lean against a bookcase.
He looks at me like I stink of piss. ‘I won’t beat about the bush. It has come to my attention that you’ve been harassing my daughter. I want you to stay away from her. Leave Swan Lake and find another job outside of Greystone. She is very fragile and I don’t want you jeopardising her state of health.’
I laugh. ‘What would you know about her state of health? She refuses to speak to you. And from what I’ve been told, you’ve never even tried to visit her.’ I plant my hands on his desk, lean over. ‘Actually, I need a word with you.’
He looks stupefied. ‘What about?’
‘Violet Adams.’
He flinches at my mum’s name. I stare hard into his eyes. They’re bright green, just like Amy’s. Nothing like my dark, untamed eyes.
Weak jaw, tiny nose — Christian Earhart looks nothing like me.
‘She was my mother.’
The Mayor looks like he’s seen a ghost. His face turns as pale as a sheet.
I go on. ‘And it’s come to my attention that you were seen loitering around with her. A thirteen-year-old girl.’
Christian bristles in his seat, clears his throat. ‘I, uh, felt sorry for her. Nobody wanted to be friends with her back then. I showed her kindness. Once gave her money for some food. Charity, that’s all it was. But afterwards she wouldn’t leave me alone. I told her to stay away. She was wild, unpredictable, a real troublemaker.’
My anger filters down into this one intensely charged moment. I fight the urge to lunge across the desk and smack this piece of shit to next Tuesday.
When the dead are trying to remember something, the living are trying harder to forget it.
Then Christian says, ‘Let’s get back to the matter at hand, shall we. I knew you
