The Nature of Cruelty (3 page)

Sasha seems exasperated by him. She glances at me. “You mind if he hangs out with us?”

I shrug and reply, “I'm easy.”

Robert squeezes my shoulders and peers down at me with an evil grin. “Are you, now?”

Sasha marches towards him and pulls him off me. “Don't start, Rob — that's your last warning.”

Robert raises his hands in the air in surrender. “Fine, fine, I'll behave,” he says, giving me a wink behind his sister's back. I narrow my gaze at him.

Sasha gestures for me to follow her, and we go upstairs to see my room, carrying our coffee cups with us. Robert trails behind. My room is at the very front of the house, and I smile in delight when I see that it's one of the rooms with the bay windows. In my head I'm visualising making a little nook where I can sit and read.

It also has an en-suite bathroom and a double bed. A moment later, Sasha's mobile phone begins ringing from where she left it down in the kitchen.

“Crap, that might be work. I'll be right back,” she says, and then dashes from the room.

I stand there, fiddling with the hem of my cardigan sleeve. Robert plops himself down on the bed. He leans back on his elbows with his legs spread wide, watching me with one end of his mouth tilted up. I turn away and walk over to the window to look out at the view of the other houses across the street.

“So, what do you think of the place?” he asks.

Turning my head to him, I reply honestly, “It's very...high end. A whole other world from back home.”

“You could certainly say that. My parents come from entirely different backgrounds. I don't know what Dad ever saw in Mum, to be perfectly honest.”

This is typical of the harsh things Robert is famous for coming out with (and sometimes I think he says them just to piss people off). His mother is one of the nicest people I know; her background shouldn’t even come into it.

“You really are an awful excuse for a human being, you know that? You're lucky to have a mother like Liz. She's a rock. Your dad might be rich, but he's flighty.”

Okay, maybe I shouldn't have said that, but it's true. Alan is what you would call a fair-weather father. He likes to be around his kids when it's fun and exciting, but if anything bad is happening you won't see hide nor hair of him.

“Flighty?” Robert repeats the word back to me like a question, testing out the sound of it on his tongue.

“You know he is, Rob. Remember when Sasha broke her leg that time during a game of basketball and had to have surgery? He never came to see her, didn't even send her a ‘get well soon’ card.”

“Well, now, you've certainly grown a pair of balls these past few years. Who knew you actually had the ability to express an opinion, Lana?”

When I was younger I would do my best to be as insulting to Robert as he was to me, but most of the time he hurt me so badly that I didn't have the strength to fight back. I'd end up getting what I like to call “crying eyes” and red cheeks, and then I'd run home before he had the chance to notice he was getting to me.

One such incident was when my mum got me a new bike for my thirteenth birthday. When I left it out in my front garden Robert stole it, slashed the tires, and threw it into the sea at the beach just beyond our houses. Liz grounded him for a month when she found out what he'd done, and he actually had the gall to blame me for telling on him. 

“I'm not a little girl anymore, Robert,” I say, my voice hard.

He smiles in the way a python might smile at its prey if it were capable of facial expressions.

“No,” he says. “You're certainly not that. You up for going a few rounds in this bed?” he asks, patting the mattress he’s sitting on.

The way he’s looking at me gives me a strange shiver that radiates down my spine. Is he being suggestive?

“You’re disgusting.” I tighten my arms, which are folded in a blatant defensive posture across my chest. I’m sure Robert notices this; people like him recognise each and every weak spot in a person’s armour.

“And you’ve grown into your looks. I wouldn’t mind checking out what’s underneath those god-awful clothes.”

“Disgusting and shallow,” I add. A small sense of victory runs through me to know that he’s noticed how I’ve lost the teenage skinniness, even if he did just put down my taste in fashion. I guess I might be a small bit shallow myself.

“Look, Lana, we’re adults now. Why don’t we agree to be friends, for Sasha’s sake if nothing else?”

“I’m not interested in being your friend.” I keep my voice steady.

He levels his palms flat on the bed, rubbing them over the duvet cover. I don’t like him touching the sheets on the bed where I’m going to be sleeping. I imagine he knows this, and that’s exactly why he’s doing it.

“Okay, then, perhaps not friends, but could we at least keep things amicable?”

I shrug. “Sure, I’m not the rude one here.”

Robert laughs. “You just called me disgusting and shallow.”

“That was a statement of fact. Nothing rude about stating a fact.”

“There is if the fact is offensive.”

I scoff at that one. “Your ego is so well-honed, Rob, that I don’t think you’re even capable of taking offence to a criticism.”

“That’s only because you can’t critique perfection,” he answers, and gives me a razor-sharp grin.

“
Touché
.” I roll my eyes just as Sasha comes back into the room.

“It
was
work calling,” she says. “Apparently some pop singer has gone off the rails and is on a crazy bender with her friends all around the city. They’ve called me in to cover the story.” She blows out a breath, looking nervous. She’s clearly unsure about leaving me alone in the house with Robert.

“You go. I’ll be spending the day getting unpacked anyway,” I tell her.

She smiles. “All right, then, call me if you need anything. I’ll bring dinner home when I’m done. Is Chinese okay for you?”

“Chinese would be wonderful, sis,” Robert pipes in.

She gives him a light slap on the head. “I wasn’t asking you, fucker.” She looks to me, waiting for an answer.

“I like Chinese. Just make sure you get something I can, you know, eat,” I say cryptically. Sasha is one of the few people who know that I have Type 1 diabetes. It’s not something I like to advertise, because I don’t want anybody feeling sorry for me. But it means that I always have to be careful with food.

Robert glances at me, confused. He’s never known about my condition, and I prefer to keep it that way. Knowing him, he’d probably try to steal my insulin as a practical joke or something.

“I will — see you two later,” says Sasha before disappearing down the stairs.

Once he hears the front door slam shut, Robert lets out a cackle and rubs his hands together. “Now I’ve got you all to myself, Lana.”

“Get out of my room.”

“This house belongs to my dad, so technically it’s more my room than it is yours.”

“You do know I’m going to tell Sasha everything you say to me when she gets back. You should be on your best behaviour.”

God, I heard the shake in my voice just then, and so did Robert. He has this knack for turning me into an anxious little girl. Maybe it’s not such a good idea to be around him after all. And maybe my mother was right when she forced me to bring along the rape alarm, I think darkly.

He studies me for a long time, and then he gets up from the bed. “Fine, if you’re going to go and cry about it, then I’ll go.”

“I’m not crying.”

He looks almost sympathetic when he glances back at me as he stands in the doorway, but that can’t be right. “Sure you’re not.”

The door closes, and I drop down onto my bed, burying my face in the palms of my hands.

Two

A
fter I’ve unpacked my things, I go and take a long bath. Since I had to get up at five o’clock this morning to make my early flight, I’m extremely tired, so I take a nap after the bath. A few hours later, the sound of tapping wakes me, and I slowly rub my eyes before opening them. When I do I practically jump out of my own skin, because a pair of heated dark brown eyes are staring right back at me.

Robert is sitting in a chair that he’s pushed up to the side of my bed and is tapping his short fingernails against the wooden surface of the nightstand. The moment draws out, and I feel a blush creep across my skin. I fell asleep lying on top of the blanket in shorts and a vest top. Robert is eating me up with his gaze.

“What on earth...” I mutter, trying to figure out whether or not this is a dream. Robert is still there, though, even after I blink several times. Now he smiles.

I gape at him, at the audacity of him to come in here while I was sleeping, but he doesn’t give me a single word of explanation.

“Well done, Rob. You’ve succeeded in creeping me the fuck out. You can leave now.”

One end of his mouth twitches, and he continues tapping his fingers. “Creeping you out? I don’t understand.”

“You need help, do you know that? It’s no wonder your girlfriend kicked you out of your own apartment, especially if this is the kind of behaviour she had to put up with.”

For a split second he winces, but then he covers it up with a laugh. “You are fiery these days, aren’t you?” He glances at my hair, which has curled a little because I slept on it damp. “I suppose it matches those locks.” His eyes move lower and stay there. “Now, that’s a good look for you.”

I narrow my eyes, not knowing what he’s getting at, before I glance down to see I’m braless. Feeling indignant, I reply, “What, breasts? I should hope so. Women are generally supposed to have a pair.”

He gives me a vague look that’s almost a grin, but not quite. “Nipples, too.”

“Huh?” I say, embarrassed now, rubbing at the back of my head. Two seconds in Robert’s company, and I can already feel a headache coming on.

He leans in closer, and I jump back instinctively. He keeps coming, though. His breath whispers over my cheek when he gets close enough, and he says, “Women have nipples, too. And I can see yours.”

Okay, that’s the last straw. I push him away from me, hard. Then I get up and push him to the door, and then out into the hallway. “Stay away from me, Rob. I’m serious. I’m not getting sucked into your games this time.”

He’s laughing now. “Sasha’s downstairs. She told me to call you for dinner. Chinese, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember. And staring at me while tapping your fingers is not the same thing as calling me.”

He shrugs and then asks randomly, “Do you remember that one Halloween when you dressed up as a witch?”

His question brings on a chill. I know exactly which Halloween he’s referring to. I was fifteen, and he was seventeen. Sasha and I were drinking a bottle of cider up in her bedroom while Rob and his friends partied downstairs. Their mum had been gone out to visit relatives. I didn’t get as drunk as Sasha though, and when she passed out I decided it was time for me to go home.

Making my way down the stairs, I bumped into Robert. Before I could react, he had me pushed up against the wall and started kissing me; his hands felt like they were everywhere all at once, groping at me feverishly. Even so, it was a slow, romantic sort of kiss, his lips pressing tenderly to mine. I didn’t know how to react, so I pushed him away and then saw he was laughing. When I asked him why he did it, he said it was because he felt sorry for me and he thought I should get kissed at least once in my life.

Pulling myself back to the present, I stare him down and ask sharply, “What about it?”

“I’m sorry I did that. It was a dickhead thing to do.”

“Yeah, well, dickheads tend to do dickhead things, so it makes perfect sense, really.”

He ignores my comment and questions me seriously, “Was that the first time a boy had ever kissed you?”

It was. I never stopped thinking about it for weeks afterwards. Reliving the moment of hope when his lips touched mine and I thought he might actually like me, and then the sinking feeling of despair when I realised it was all a joke to him.

I look away now. “I don’t want to talk about this. Tell Sasha I’ll be down in a little while.” I turn away and go to shut the door, but he puts his arm out to stop me. His eyes take me in. “I was a cruel prick to you back then,” he says. “I’m sorry for that.”

I don’t know what to say to him. I’ve never been able to tell whether or not he’s being genuine, and this instance is no different. I simply nod and start closing the door again. He moves his hand just in time before wood knocks against wood.

Okay, so far I’ve painted Robert in a fairly unpleasant light. All of the things I’ve said about him are true, and although he doesn’t deserve my sympathy, on some messed-up level I do feel sorry for him. Having Alan Phillips for a father did a bit of a number on both Robert and Sasha. He’s the kind of man who expects achievements from his kids, constantly piling on the pressure. He’s also got a tongue on him like a jack-knife – brutal and cutting.

I once had to spend days comforting a miserable Sasha after he told her on one of his rare visits that she needed start wearing a dress every now and again. At the time I didn’t get why she would be so upset over such a minor comment, but it wasn’t just one comment, it was a buildup of them over years and years. Not to mention he rarely showed up for her birthdays and other special occasions, so she was insecure as to whether or not he actually loved her at all.

The same goes for Rob. However, while Sasha internalises her insecurities, Robert makes himself feel better by generally being a wanker. The one thing they share in common, and what they’d both deny if asked, is that they are constantly vying for their father’s approval. I’m half convinced that the only reason Sasha chose the celebrity gossip aspect of journalism for her career was to please Alan. In the same way, Robert works his arse off as a PR specialist at Alan’s agency, hoping to win his father’s esteem.

Pulling myself from these thoughts, I retrieve my insulin case from my bag, bring it into the en-suite, and close the door. I was diagnosed with diabetes when I was seven, so ever since I was a kid I’ve been focused on taking care of myself and staying healthy. I have to take my insulin shots three times a day before meals and regularly monitor my blood sugar levels (usually several times a day, too). It’s all second nature to me now.