Fall of Hope (Book 1): Real Heroes Don't Wear Capes (21 page)

More
of these creatures roam about behind him, attacking people who cannot
see the danger.

He
also spots the red cloaked figures, but they favour lingering beside
the chaos with anticipation building inside their hollow hoods. The
way they rub at their white hands makes Bobby want to hurl.

A
harsh cough pulls him back around, and he spins with sweat spilling
into the air. When he glares back into the road, the creatures are
gone. Their absence leaves him with the reality of what everyone else
is content to believe.

What
the hell was that?

H
e
watches as the woman removes her hand from her mouth and produces a
shit
eating
grin
his way.
W
addling
past his old man, she heads back inside the
Sorrow's
Inn
,
but not before dropping a side glance back at him. Bobby wishes he
could wipe that smug expression straight off her face.

Heat
piles through Bobby's flesh and his body pulsates. The sensation
spreads from his face to his fists, and he finds himself wanting to
scream. Instead, he swallows all the confusion and anger down, then
glares at his father.

“
You
might have loved Benji more, but I'm still here. Why don't you try
for me—am I not good enough?”

Staring
at the sorry excuse, Bobby wonders why he bothers to wear his wedding
band.

He
has destroyed every vow he made since the day he put it on.

His
father reaches one hand from his unwashed denim shirt to scratch at
his forehead. He stares Bobby in the eye for a moment, then drops his
gaze to the closed fists at his side. A smirk dances across his lips,
causing Bobby's bubbling mouth to fall silent. Anything said beyond
this point is apt to get him a smack later on. And if not him, then
his mother.

Shaking
his head, Bobby looks back the way he came and considers pulling his
father home. Yet, he knows he will not comply. And if Toad and his
gang see, it'll only give them more ammunition.

There's
no way I can drag him across the field while he's like this.

Just
looking at the mess his father is, Bobby realises all he feels for
him is disgust.

He
has cheated again, and now mum knows.

He
knows next time she falls into a dissociative state it will be worse
than any other time. Sure, she knew the truth deep down, but there
was still hope to cling to. But having her fears confirmed has
destroyed all the hope she had.

And
there is no going back. Maybe she will go to that place on the
leaflet.

Turning
to leave, Bobby considers having somebody else come to the door to
tell his mum what her husband is up to, or even worse, take him back
shit-faced.

The
dread of that happening makes him turn back and grab his father
beneath the armpit. Bobby tries to pull him to his feet while the
stench of cigarettes and booze makes him grimace. The denim under his
arms is damp with sweat. His aftershave has a bitter tang which his
mother would never have brought him.

As
he tries to yank him upward, the 70lbs heavier frame does nothing to
aid his efforts. In fact, he appears to be opposing them by sinking
further into the bench. He hooks his legs around the seat like a
spoiled brat not wanting to leave the playground.

As
he leans closer to get a better grip, his father's sickly breath
graces his ear. The voice attempts to pronounce each word with a note
of seriousness, but Bobby can tell it's a struggle.

The
sun must have gotten to him sitting out here.

With
all the venom a stuttering alcoholic with sun stroke can muster, his
old man whispers in his ear. The threat would be funny and pathetic
if the words didn't startle him so much.

Bobby
lets go of his father in an instant and trips over his feet to get
away. Without glancing back, he heads up the road without his father
in tow.

As
he storms past people, hot tears stream down his cheeks, but he
doesn't bother to wipe them away until his father is no longer in
sight.

How
can the man get wasted every day to deal with the grief of one son,
yet hurt the family he still has?
If
we mean nothing to him, why doesn't he just leave?

Clenching
his fingernails into his sweaty palms, Bobby grinds his teeth as his
father's threat replays on repeat all the way home.

I'm
going to beat the shit out of her when I get home, and it's all your
fault.

•

Bobby
considers calling the police. He picks up the phone within the
silence of the hallway, then slams it back in the cradle. He heads
upstairs and repeats five minutes later with the same outcome.

There
was once a time when this house was full of noise. The washing
machine was constantly on the go, churning a soapy mess of mud
because his brother was always coming home from football caked in
filth.

His
mother would sing while chopping vegetables and mashing the potatos
for dinner. She laughed with his dad from the moment he stepped
through the door after work. Sometimes Bobby would catch the pair
dancing—her with her apron still tied around her waist and him
trailing mud everywhere from his work boots. But it hadn't mattered
because they were lost in the moment.

Benji
was always running in and out and being told not to kick the ball in
the house. He would tag Bobby, then mock him when he couldn't catch
him.

He
would let me catch him eventually and pretend he was out of breath.

Bobby
glares at the phone and urges himself to make the call.

But
what difference will it make?

The
police will do nothing until something happens and, by that point, it
will already be too late. Eleven months ago, he called the police
from his mobile after hearing a commotion downstairs. The police
turned up ten minutes later, giving his father plenty of time to
disappear. When he went downstairs, he found his mother shaking with
her clothes ripped. Bobby tried to help, but she
shooed
him
upstairs.

His
mother dropped whatever charges the police were trying to pin on his
father out of fear, or love. His father still doesn't know he called
the police, so he avoided a beating. He blames the neighbours which
weighs heavy on Bobby's conscious; they had to move away from the
barrage of abuse they were receiving on a daily basis.

His
mother will only make up a poor excuse if the police come around
later. She wasn't looking where she was going, being the clumsy woman
she is, or she toppled down the stairs while taking the washing
up—he's heard every excuse.

The
police aren't stupid; they knew that time and they will this time,
but what can they do about it? After making a statement about how she
received two swollen eyes, a split lip, fractured ribs and a
dislocated shoulder, she retracted the statement the next day after a
visit from
dear old
dad, so there was nothing they could do.

What
if I contact them now and confess my dad's threat? What if they say
they can do something, but the threat dissolves into nothing?

Shaking
his head, Bobby realises it is irrelevant. His mother would never let
it go to court, anyway.

Head
bowed, he leaves the phone and heads upstairs to his bedroom to await
the inevitable. No snoring comes from his parents' bedroom and he
considers going in there. Yet, he dismisses the idea, not wanting to
wake her.

When
he kicks his shoes off and slides them underneath the bed, every
sound sends a twitch through his upper extremities.

“
You
could prevent all this, you know?”

Turning
to his right, he locks eyes with the figure standing before the
wardrobe. The white irises stare back from the friend that no one
else can see. And, in honesty, Bobby wants to show him the middle
finger at this point. There is no time for arguments with his
anxieties tensing every bone.

Bobby
allows a heavy sigh to fall from his mouth. “He'd kill me.”

The
corner of Gage's mouth rises as he pushes a collected breath out
through his nose. He glances the opposite way before shrugging. “Not
if you'd just do as I say.”

“
I'm
not going in there,” Bobby replies without missing a beat.

How
many times do I have to tell him the same thing before he gets it?
How can me going in the room change the outcome of anything, anyway?

“
You're
scared. It's understandable, I guess. He's been dead how long now?”

“
You
know how long,” Bobby replies as his arms flap in the air.
“What do you want of me, huh?”

“
I
want you to do as you're supposed to and stop your god damn bitching.
They sent me here to retrieve you, and until you come with me I'm
stuck in this fucking place.”

“
So
you're saying if I get what you're after from my dead brother's room,
I'll be magically healed of this mess?” Bobby thinks about it,
then adds as an afterthought, “why can't you go in there and
claim them. Why does it have to be me?”

“
Yes,
and because it is for you to do. This isn't about me, it's about you.
How do you not know that? How can I be here to look for someone who
isn't wise to their higher calling?” There is little emotion
emitting from him, despite what the words suggest as he stares at
Bobby while he paces.

“
Well,
you will have to go in there and get the bloody things because I sure
won't. And piss off if you don't want to be here, I'm not stopping
you from leaving. I thought you were a friend, but obviously I was
wrong all this time. You helped me through some tough crap and now
you're acting like it means nothing—like I'm nothing, just like
him.”

Gage
blows air out his mouth which ruffles the hair spilling over his
forehead. He drops his hands to his hips with one foot in front of
the other as though he means to tap it on the carpet—a look of
impatience if ever there was one.

Since
turning up, he has always looked trimmed. The shaved sides on his
scalp never appear to grow, nor does the lengthy hair hanging between
his eyes. It never sits out of place as he runs his fingers through
it occasionally. The thin beard that only runs along the jaw line and
beneath his chin is immaculate. If he is trapped here—as he
claims to be—he must have a good stylist.

Maybe
they should work on his clothes.

If
his admission of being a shape-shifter is accurate, then why has
Bobby never seen him change into anything else? Or more to the point,
if he is only a fragment of his imagination, why hasn't he turned
into something else brought on by his own mind to prove it?

“
That
isn't the way it works. If it was, then I would, believe me. How they
think that you are the saviour is beyond me. But if you don't get the
things, then I cannot go back and we will lose everything. And that
way you'll never get to see me 'change'.” The last words he
uses sound as though he is messing with him. It humours him knowing
he can read whatever thoughts accumulate in Bobby's mind if he
pleases.