Breakdown (29 page)

Jack. Age 30

Some twelve years later, the grief was still the same. Sat there in the MC bathroom, arms were still across my knees, head buried, this time the sound of the shower drowned out the tears. That same gentle stroke came to my head, and it took me a moment to realise Craig was sat by me, not talking, just waiting.

“I hit him during the blackouts. My old man.”

Craig never spoke and I glanced sideways at him.

“I don’t... I forgot.” Another tear fell free and I looked away, wiping my arm across my eyes. “I knew I’d hit him when he’d walked in on me sleeping with a guy when I was fifteen. And I prided myself...” I shrugged more grief free. “I prided myself that I’d never sworn or touched him since. But...” Giving a frown I dropped my head back, looking up and letting the patter of rain play out. “He never spoke about it. He never once mentioned I’d—”

“Maybe there was no need to, Jack,” said Craig, quietly. “Maybe life got better for both of you and he thought you didn’t need reminders.”

“But he knew. He knows I forget details, that they slipped away.” A little anger crept in. “
I shouldn’t have been allowed to forget that shit
.”

Craig fell quiet for a moment. “Is that what got you to testify against Cutter? Because you found out Martin had been hitting your father?”

The fall of the water took my attention. I shook my head. The rest came so easily, like flicking an ignition switch and watching the rest of the engine spark into life. A good part of it had been because of my old man, but what came after...?

Jack. Age 18

There in the interrogation room, my old man eased to his feet and I watched him walk out of the cell. He’d said nothing more and there was no looking back. Closing my eyes, I rested my head back down in the arms across my knees.

A moment later, jogging pants and boxers landed at my feet.

“Name’s Gray. Get dressed,” he said flatly. “We’re done here.”

The table had been pushed back into place: everything cleaned up, put back: ordered, but this time it left a deep numbness, how little life and the rest of this shit mattered. Tired. I was so fucking tired.

Movements were sluggish, body and hands feeling as though they belonged to someone else who had swam the Thames and just climbed out. Shivering. It was fucking cold in here, and the ache in my ribs and shoulder were deep, throbbing. Boxers came on, but the jogging pants took longer, trying to balance on one leg without tipping over. The corner where I’d first lay held a lot of security, and I wanted to crawl over, just get my head down, sleep, maybe hide more.

“Holding cell,” a voice drifted in from over by the door, and it took a while for me to find Gray, hearing him speak. He was talking to another man and both were looking over. “Read him his rights and let him know where this shit has landed him,” added Gray, “I’ve got some calls to make.”

“Dah...” Things swam a little and I briefly closed my eyes. “Where... where’d my old man go?”

Gray looked away, handing the files to the other cop. “Cell 3. He talks to no one yet.”

“Medic?” The man tucked the file under his arm as he glanced over at my ribs.

“Not yet. Too much of a risk.”

“You...” I stumbled over, hating the drunk feeling and slurred speech that seemed to go with it. “Call. Can I call him? Please? Calm down. He just needs to calm down. I’m... I’m allowed to make a cuh—”

“No one else. Clear?” Gray wasn’t even talking to me; then he was gone and I was tugged out of the room into a brightly lit corridor. Someone held the door open at the other end, then I was led into a huge office area. With no shirt, the coolness of the air bit deep. It was light outside, which meant I’d been here for much longer than I realised. Maybe a day? Had I been out that long? Plain-clothed cops filled the police station and people—

Social. I didn’t do social—

“Wouldn’t advise struggling, kid.” The grip on my arm tightened as I snarled, trying to pull back into the corridor, into the cell, scramble into the corner, away from the people sitting at desks, talking on phones and working.

Gray was in there too, talking to two other cops. He glanced over, and the grip on my arm loosened as the man next to me said—“Oh, wow, look at that. My lace is undone.”

“Huh?” I shivered, staring down at the man in a suit as he knelt and started messing with shoes that had no fucking laces on them. As he did, he glanced up at Gray, then a door opened over by Gray, or more Gray opened a door by him. It was followed by such a loud cry of anger, it had me staggering back.

I hit the floor in the next moment, then instantly curled in, trying to protect my ribs from the second kicking it took.

“My boy,” cried a man. “You... fuck my boy in front of me?”

A scuffle came—shouts. Blood pouring from my nose and hands flat on the floor, I looked up to see Gray holding a man in his forties back. Tears streaked the older man’s cheeks, and there was such a look of fucking hate there as he cried out for a second time, trying every which way to shake free of Gray and get at me.

“Positive ID check, I take it?” said Gray, looking down.

“Christ, yes,” cried the man, snot running from his nose as easily as the tears from his eyes. “Christ... yes. That’s the fuck, that’s the fucking—”

Gray let him go again, and I ducked my head, covering up protectively with my arms as work boots kicked the shit out of me again. More shuffles and cries came, mostly from the man as Gray spun him away, into the two men behind who moved in and pulled the shouting man away.

A grip on my shoulder made sure I found my back, the floor cold and—dirt, fucking dirt that grated into skin and—

“You still not ready to cry Uncle yet, kid? Open that mouth of yours?”

The grip under my jaw stopped any protest, bringing me close to blue eyes as Gray crouched down. In the darkness of the office, those eyes looked so bloody bright, an ocean that threatened drowning, no questions asked, so fucking cold.

“Count your lucky stars I’m in a good mood. What you did to that man and his kid, he deserved more than a minute with you.”

“I don’t fucking know him,” I snarled, more cried, not understanding, th’fuck not understanding, yet terrified at the rage I’d witnessed, could still hear being cried in the background.

“Yeah.” Gray went quiet for a second. “Which is why he got that minute with you. You’ll remember that if nothing else.”

Pulled to my feet, I cried out as my ribs seemed to want to rip up my insides. The pain finally took its toll as I staggered away from Gray and threw up. That only hurt more, and I thumped into the wall, needing the pain in my hand, my shoulder to take away from the other hurt my body had taken. But throwing up seemed to enjoy forcing more hurt.

Gray again came from nowhere, tugging me towards an open doorway. It looked like your typical holding cell: slot in the door, bed inside, toilet. The need was there to try and pull away, scramble back into whatever hellhole Gray had used for an interrogation room, seeing the toilet, but I was only pulled into the inevitable, no get out of jail early cards now. Just me, this, and a door closing, locking me away from normality. Maybe I needed it. Maybe the animal needed a cage, to be fed through a slot in the door, because...

Go home, Jack, One day... one day you’ll do someone some damage and struggle to remember what you’ve done through the fog.

“Tell him I’m sorry.”

Gray looked back at me, eyes narrowing.

“Whoever he was, whatever I did.” I shrugged. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s too late for sorry, Jack.”

I nodded, a tear escaping. “Yeah, I saw that.”

Gray looked away, denying every existence. I had no right to expect any, and I looked away too, down at the bed, at the floor. “My old man.” I wiped at my eye, kidding myself it was to wipe away blood. “Please... just tell him I’m sorry too, that I love the fucking bones off him. That I didn’t mean to hurt him. That I’ll understand if he stays away.”

Whether Gray heard or not, I don’t know, his intent was already fixed on the group of men he’d been talking to. The door wasn’t closed, and I frowned, not really understanding why.

Then when the opposite holding cell across the office came open, it became very fucking clear that Gray was far from finished yet. Who came out had me ready to cry and plead Uncle, even if it meant crawling on my knees and crying it for the whole of London to hear.

“Steve.” The first was just a breath of his name, the second, fucking panic as I tried to get to him. “Steve. Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” Gray was in front of me as Steve jolted, head looking up—over. Eyes widening.

“Jack.” Looking puzzled, gaze resting on Gray, Steve frowned. “What the?”

“Christ. No.” I tried to push my way past, get over to him, then cried hurt and anger when Gray made sure I couldn’t. Steve was already coming over.

“Grass?” I cried. “Christ, you fucking idiot. The bastard will find her—he’ll get your kids and fucking slaughter them, you stupid fucking cunt. You’ve tasted it. You know what he’ll do.”

“Jack.” He was over, still looking so pale, looking like he hadn’t slept, not for weeks, but as Gray looked back over his shoulder, Steve seemed to lose more life.

“Jack,” he said quickly, looking at me. “I’m... not for me. Not...” A sad silence. “You—”

Hands went to my head as I backed off. “Tell them nothing. You keep your mouth fucking shut—”

“Get him back to the waiting room,” said Gray, giving a nod back to the man who had tied his shoe, all casual-like.

But as Shoe-lace guy went to grab Steve, Gray had to push me back as I went for Steve as well. “Fucking grass?” I cried.

Steve was pulled back, his own cries nearly drowning out mine. “Jack, not what you think, not what—”

“He’ll find a way to get to you.” I cried out, trying to push past Gray, get to Steve, throttle every ounce of sense into him. But again a hand pushed at my hurt shoulder, sending me back. “You think these bastards will protect you from that? You think they’ll be there when the shit falls on yours afterwards? They’re out to tick boxes and suck the balls of the bastards in government, not give a shit about what else goes down outside of that.”

Tears streaked Steve’s cheeks and arms went out as he was tugged back. “Not here to stop Cutter, Jack. Here... here to stop you, help my kids, Carole. To help you.”

“By getting us sent fucking down? This bastard here will use you, then throw away the fucking key.” I cried out. “Let him go.” Gray had every ounce of fear from me, and pleading, Christ—I’d fucking plead if he needed me to. “He’s got a family. Cutter will slaughter his missus and fucking sell his kids. I’ll give you whatever you need to know, just, please, get him the hell out of here. Let him tell Cutter it’s me. I don’t need shit from you, I’ll deal with anything that cunt throws at me, but Steve...”

“No deal.”

I cried out, the hell did I cry out, and suddenly Shoe-lace guy was pushing Steve aside and coming in to help Gray get me down on the floor, on the—

“Floor,” I snarled, the shout lost in the arm hold around my throat. “Fucking touch, don’t... Off the floor, off—” Shoe-lace guy had his hands on my shoulder, leg behind mine, trying to off-set balance, but touch—his hands had fucking touched the floor as he’d knelt there, steadying his balance. Now he was trying to pull me down with him, his fucking filthy touch roughing up mine, and cuts... there were fucking open cuts on my face. Cheeks. Touch that and—“Don’t. No floor, not the fucking floor...”

Blackness hit pretty quick, and there was a cry, that will to let it take control, take over, not worry over life slipping through my fingers into the dirt-filled fists of these bastards, Gray being the worst. And I willed it on—called it out: life, the bastards here—Steve, you name it. I’d slaughter the whole lot of them just to stop the... touching. Then I was falling, being taken down so fucking easily by a strong grip around my neck. And fall... like hell would I fall anymore.

Again there was that feeling of tiredness, that pull just to fall to sleep. Coldness came to my back, but the feel of dirt didn’t bother me so much. It wasn’t drug-induced, just that heavy feel of climbing out of a swimming pool that made limbs heavy, talking nigh-on impossible. I was blinking up at a strip light, more staring, and pretty content just to do so. There was shouting going on about the holding cell. At least I knew that much, that I was still in the holding cell, and the idea of a bed in a room where no one could touch or see me suddenly didn’t seem like such a bad idea as I tried to ease onto my side, sit up—just get to the bed, sleep, close the door on life, hide.