Absolution (3 page)

The warehouse smelt of sawdust and oil, and it put Jack in mind of a garage, although there were no cars to be seen. It was on the outskirts of the city, tucked in behind a factory that looked like it had been closed for years. Grass sprung up from cracks in the broken concrete outside. If you looked up ‘urban decay’ in the dictionary, there would be a photograph of this place.

Ben arrived with one of his heavies, strolling straight into the small storeroom out back that served as the locker room, to clarify the details with him. He was to go down in the third round. He nodded irritably, ignoring the giant who stood next to him, doing his best to silently scare him into submission.

“Third round,” he mumbled. “Got it.”

“Payment after the fight, as usual,” Ben said, preparing to leave. He turned around in the doorway. “There’s a lot riding on this so don’t screw it up, for either of us. You go down in this fight and your next one will earn us both double, trust me.” He paused, giving Jack the once-over from his feet up. “You look tense – loosen up.”

Jack clenched his teeth, nodding brusquely. He needed to concentrate, and if his father didn’t stop invading his head like this, he would never get through it. Tom wouldn’t approve of this – he wouldn’t understand. Frowning, he pushed the thoughts down deep. He didn’t have the luxury of dealing with grief right now, he had a job to do.

He had been aware of the general buzz of the amassing crowd outside, slowly building. Moments later, they erupted into a loud roar. There had to be at least a couple of hundred people out there. By the time he climbed into the ring to the deafening sound of cheering, he was in a trance. His head was on fire and combined with the noise surrounding him, he could barely think straight. Standing up inside the ring, the smell of sweat, stale beer and liniment reminded him he had a job to do. He bobbed up and down, rolling his shoulders, ignoring the crowd and concentrating on his opponent. He had clearly been spending a lot more time in the gym since he last saw him. His ribs ached just looking at him.

“Third round,” he mumbled to himself above the cacophony, throwing punches into the air in front of him.

He never even heard the bell above the roar of the crowd, but he saw his opponent heading straight for him. He shook his head to clear it and headed into the centre of the ring to meet him head-on. They were fighting for money and the crowd was betting large. There was no meeting in the middle to touch gloves, no agreeing to abide by the rules. There were no gloves and no rules. Strangely, he felt at home there.

He ducked the first punch and snapped back to reality in time to feel the second punch connect with the side of his head. His ears rang but he kept his hands up and his feet moving. He stole a quick glance ringside. Ben stared back at him. Jack diverted his attention back to his opponent, dancing around him for a few seconds before bearing down with a series of one-two combinations, ending with a sharp jab to the ribcage. His opponent staggered but stayed on his feet, Jack’s arms and shoulders burning from the recoil. Stray punches found their mark but Jack shook them off.

At the end of the first round, he retreated to his corner and took the squirt of water offered greedily. Panting, he was fairly certain that was more from the effort of trying to keep his mind on the job rather than the physical toll. His father’s voice kept overriding that of the crowd. Blinking, he grabbed the water bottle, squirting it over his face in an effort to wash the voices away.

Heading into the centre for round two, he was anxious and hyper-alert. He dodged his opponent’s first couple of punches easily, swinging his body away from the right hooks – his most powerful. He was too slow to avoid the sudden left swing that hit him though, and it reverberated throughout his body, leaving him staggering.

Unbidden, Ally’s face was suddenly in his head and he shook it to get rid of her, an overwhelming sense of guilt hitting him with the same power as a well-placed roundhouse kick. Groaning, he knew she would never have let him put himself and his body on the line like this. She would hate it, if she knew – if any of them knew.

A thunderous blow to the head saw him falling to the floor as the lights went out momentarily. He lay on the floor for what seemed like hours, his head ringing. Slowly, his vision cleared and he saw his father – standing inside the ropes, staring at him. Jack held his breath. Then he blinked and the image was gone. Scrambling to get up, he shook his head and tried to ignore the screaming crowd. This had to stop.

He shot upright, barely thinking about what he was doing, heading straight for his opponent, hands up, eyes focused. He didn’t even feel the first punch connect with his opponent’s ribs, but he saw him double over all the same. The next punch came straight out of the blue and into his opponent’s face, front and centre. The grief and guilt tore out of him at a hundred miles an hour and rained down on his opponent because he was there. For a split second, he felt sorry for him.

Catching him as he rebounded off the ropes, he slugged him again – and again, and again, until the man was a steaming heap at his feet.

The crowd roared, baying for blood. Slowly, Jack came back to himself. Realisation slammed into him. Adrenaline fired through his system as he frantically sought out Ben. It was like staring into the eye of a hurricane.

He bolted from the ring, fighting his way through the crowd, heading straight for the storeroom. He had been in more establishments like this than he cared to remember, and one thing he routinely did before the fight was check for possible escape routes, just in case. More than once he’d had to escape an unhappy crowd when the fight didn’t go their way. He snatched his bag, jamming a chair beneath the door handle. Heading straight for the small anteroom at the back, he tried to force the window open. When it wouldn’t give, he dug into his bag and pulled out his shirt, wrapping it around his fist impatiently and jabbing it into the window-pane, shattering the glass. He cleared the jagged glass around the edges of the frame and climbed through, glancing behind him once he was out in the alley.

Panting heavily, he ran along the alley, not stopping until he was clear of the building, steam pouring off him into the chilled night air. He jumped into his car and gunned the engine, heading for his apartment, blood pounding in his ears. Checking the rear-view mirror every few minutes, he looked for signs that Ben or his henchmen might be following him, thankful that – as far as he knew – they didn’t know where he lived. He took the long way, just in case, and bolted up the stairs to his second-floor apartment.

Throwing his meagre possessions into his duffle bag, he checked his cell phone battery and ripped the lid off the pizza box, jamming that in too. After giving the small apartment a quick once-over, he headed straight back to his car. There was no time to hang around. Ben would be looking for him.

Throwing his bag into the car, he glanced quickly up and down the street. He climbed in, pausing to take a deep breath. His lungs pushed painfully against his bruised ribs. His muscles screamed and his hands shook uncontrollably.

“I’m coming, Dad,” he whispered into the silence. “I’m sorry I’m late, but I’m coming.”

“
Regret for the things we did can be tempered by time; it is regret for the things we did not do that is inconsolable.
”

- Sydney Smith

Six Hours Earlier

Ally hummed to herself, lowering her paintbrush and staring back at the canvas in front of her. A smile played on her lips and she found her concentration waning. She had tried to put this morning’s meeting out of her mind in order to get back to work, but the distraction tactic had clearly worn off. Giving up the pretense, she let her gaze wander to the workbench – more specifically, to the draft exhibition invitation on top of the workbench.

The exhibition –
her
exhibition – was really going ahead. Linda Frostmeyer wanted to exhibit her work – the proof lay in that invitation. It wasn’t a dream. Years of work, of pouring her heart and soul into her paintings, were finally coming to fruition. What had always been a private matter – a sanctuary for her, a means to channel her energy – would now be shown to anyone who cared to look. The thought made her slightly queasy but she pushed it aside. All artists went through this transition at one time or another, she reasoned. For once, she was no different.

The exhibition was three months away and she still had to finish the current painting she was working on – the last in a series – and make the final decision on the other paintings to be included. There was still a lot of work to be done. Ignoring the tasks ahead for the time being, she gave herself up to the moment and smiled with pure excitement. The Frostmeyer Gallery wanted to exhibit her work!

She took a deep breath and reached for her crutches, sliding her arms into the cuffs. Pushing away from the padded frame propped in front of the canvas, she made her way slowly over to the workbench and picked up the invitation. If it hadn’t been for her support network, this would not be happening.

She was genetically stubborn, but in recent years that hadn’t always been enough. After the accident, after Jack’s sudden disappearance, while nursing a broken heart and a broken body, she had been overcome with doubt, heartache and frustration. Sometimes the disappointment and sense of betrayal, the uncertainty of a future that seemed hollow and empty, had almost consumed her. But she had come through it, and she had her friends, her family to thank for that. They had been right there with her. They held her up when she felt herself falling. They had dragged her up by her hair at times, warning her to get her act together. They taught her that acceptance didn’t mean giving up – or giving in. It had been a team effort and she was eager to share the moment with them. She was glad that tonight was movie night. She could fill them in then.

She put the invitation back on the workbench. Her gaze wandered around her studio. Beneath the window, finished canvases were stacked in front of each other against the wall in several piles, waiting for the decision of whether or not they were to be included in the exhibition. Like dancers lining up at an audition, they waited patiently, each one speaking to her, mentally extolling its merits.

One in particular spoke so loudly it stood out, even though it was partially hidden behind another canvas. Linda had been insistent that this one was included, but Ally still wasn’t convinced. She trusted Linda’s judgment without question, but this painting was different. It laid her soul bare and she wasn’t sure she wanted the world to see how damaged she really was. Linda had argued that the portfolio would not be complete without it and, in principal, Ally agreed. But on an emotional level, it was a different story. The fact that it was part of her ‘Evolution’ series made the decision that much harder to make.

She was eager to show off that series most of all. It was the most personal of all her work, documenting the various stages of her physical and mental recovery following the accident, and it held a special place in her heart. It was the series she was most afraid and most proud of. It exposed her vulnerabilities – her insecurities, her heartache and fear – but it also showed her overwhelming desire to conquer this new life and to emerge stronger than ever. As she revisited the conversation she had had with Linda that morning, she realised that on days like today, everything seemed to fall into perspective. It had been a journey, the past four years – and now she felt like it was finally coming to an end. A new journey was beginning.

She took a mental step backwards, assessing her studio space from an outsider’s point of view. The walls were a vibrant lime green and her finished canvases adorned every space that wasn’t already occupied by a door, window, storage shelf or workbench. A large shelving unit along one wall held supplies, while a dual-height bench took up another entire wall, littered with materials she had been using, blank canvases stored underneath. Callum and Tom had built the workbench themselves, so that it had space for her wheelchair to fit comfortably underneath on one half, with the other half higher, so she could stand in front of it when she was wearing her braces, angling her hips forward and balancing against it. Callum had insisted on padding the front of the higher end, minimising the possibility of bruising. He had done everything he possibly could to make things easier for her and she owed him a debt of gratitude she knew she could never possibly repay. Without him, she wouldn’t be standing here – literally.

He had been there from the moment she woke up in the hospital after the accident. Part of her suspected that he was trying to fill the hole that Jack had left, because he felt some sense of moral obligation to make up for Jack’s shortcomings. She shuddered, wondering how different things might have been if Jack had stayed. Callum had been there for her, through everything, because Jack wasn’t.

Guilt had to be behind Jack’s decision to leave, she had decided long ago. She didn’t blame him for the accident, and if he had stayed, she would have told him that. But he didn’t and she never got the chance.

Conversely, she did blame him for leaving. He should have stayed until she woke up and given them both the chance to talk about it, not just disappeared like that. That had been the hardest part – waking up and not having him by her side. Worse still was the fact that in the four years since, he had made no attempt to contact her. Tom had been honest with her from the beginning, so she knew Jack had been in contact with him. When he had told her of the deal that they had struck – that Jack had told Tom not to give out his new number – she truly knew that Jack didn’t love her. If he had loved her, he would have wanted to talk to her. The knowledge had sat like a heavy weight on her chest for a long time afterwards.

Where he was now was anyone’s guess. They didn’t talk about him anymore. It had taken awhile, but she was pragmatic about it. It was better she didn’t know. She had her own life to live, and so did he. Whatever they had shared was over. Life goes on, and she had decided that she wasn’t going to let the past haunt the present.

She knew by now that nothing worth having came easy. Now that she was able to take control of her thoughts, she could see the path ahead. It wasn’t as lonely and dark as she had once thought.

The doorbell interrupted her thoughts. Making her way slowly out into the hall, she planted her crutches first, then using the power in her hips, she propelled each braced leg forward one at a time, carefully timing each movement.

Callum’s muffled voice carried through the door. “Ally, it’s me.”

“I’m coming!”

She was eager to share the news of her meeting with Linda. Arriving at the door, she balanced on her crutches and reached out to open it, grinning in anticipation.

The second she saw Callum’s face, however, the smile died on her lips. “What’s wrong?”

He stood in the open doorway, his red-rimmed eyes downcast as he fidgeted with the car keys in his hand. Finally, he shoved them into his pocket.

“I think you should sit down,” he said quietly, turning to close the door behind him. “Maggie’s on her way over. We should wait for her.”

Her heart raced. “Tell me.”

“Let’s just wait till she gets here, okay?”

“You’re scaring me,” she whimpered, her eyes locked on his. “What’s going on?”

“I didn’t want you hearing it from anyone else,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s Tom. I found him in his living room. He had a heart attack.”

“Is he okay?”

He shook his head slowly, his chin quivering. “He never even made it to the hospital.”

Suddenly everything seemed to stop. Callum’s face blurred. Blood pounded in her ears. She felt the floor shifting beneath her and then his arms were around her, holding her up.

“He’s gone, Ally.”

Her heart ached with a loss so familiar, she felt like it had never really left her.

From the moment he learned of his father’s death, Jack felt like the walls were closing in on him. He had to get home. Trying to fight it was like taking on the earth’s gravitational pull – exhausting and ultimately pointless. Emotions raged within him; grief, remorse, fear, and an overwhelming desire to make amends. His body was exhausted, but his brain would not let him rest. He stared at the road ahead and once again considered carefully what he was about to do.

He was scared to death, but he had to go home. He owed it to his father. He should have done it while he was alive, because technically now it was too late, but he had to go. If nothing else, he had to say goodbye.

He replayed the conversation with Callum in his head, followed by other conversations – countless ones with his father, echoing relentlessly. He shook his head to try and clear it, the muscles in his neck and shoulders twinging at the movement. He had been caught between a rock and a hard place. Not showing for the fight would have brought Ben’s wrath squarely down on his shoulders, so he had fought. But losing control like that in the ring was another matter. Ben would not take that lightly. He had screwed up – what else was new. But he had left town and Ben had no leads. He was grateful again for his obsessive need for privacy, but still glanced at the rear-view mirror again out of habit.

He was going home.

Home.

The word always brought a sense of dread with it. Despite Callum’s warning to stay away from Ally, he couldn’t help but think of her. Would she change her mind and want to talk to him? Would Callum? Would anyone, after what he had done?

He had pulled over onto the hard shoulder as soon as he had left the highway, retrieving his phone from his duffle bag and dialing Father David’s number from the scribble on top of the pizza box lid. Father David had offered his condolences and Jack quietly informed him that he would be coming home for his father’s funeral. He thanked him for organising things on his behalf. The words of comfort offered down the phone line washed over him, barely making an impression. He fantasised about dissolving into the cracks in the tarmac in front of him, falling through into oblivion.

Driving through town after town, the road ahead seemed longer, not shorter. There was no turning back now. Fate had taken over, clearly sick of waiting for him to make the right decision on his own. Pressing harder on the gas pedal, he went over the last conversation he’d had with his father, turning it this way and that in his head. It had started out as always – pleasantries exchanged, the conversation slightly awkward. For the first time in a while, his father had mentioned Ally and Jack had interrupted him, reminding him of their pact; don’t ask, don’t tell. The conversation had taken a swift dive and thinking back on it now, he couldn’t remember who had hung up on whom.