Welcome To Wherever You Are (12 page)

              ‘Everyone’s gone,’ he began.

Neither parent acknowledged his presence.

‘The crematorium was packed,’ Tommy continued. ‘The vicar said they were lining up outside because there weren’t enough seats.’

His mother and father remained silent, so Tommy made his way towards the fireplace, balanced on one crutch, and stretched his arm to pick up plates and a pint glass.

‘I’ll make a start on clearing some of this away then,’ he mumbled, then grasped his other crutch and began to leave the room.

‘Leave them,’ said his mother.

‘It’s okay, I don’t mind doing it.’

‘You’ve done enough already,’ she replied coldly.

‘It’s okay, I want to help.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘Fiona, don’t,’ his father interrupted.

‘He knows what he did,’ she muttered. ‘He knows.’

Tommy felt the anger he’d bottled up for the last ten days since the car accident slowly begin to release.

‘I know what? Come on, Mum, this is the most you’ve said to me all week. What do I know?’

His mother looked him in the eyes with a resentment he’d never see in her before.

‘It’s because of
you
they’re dead. Don’t ever expect me to forget that.’

‘It’s not my fault!’ Tommy pleaded. ‘It was an accident. That car drove into us, me dropping my phone had nothing to do with it.’

‘They weren’t supposed to be at that junction, they were there because you talked them into it because you were too lazy to catch the bus.’

‘But they offered to give me a lift—’

‘No,’ she shouted, and pointed a finger at him. ‘You took advantage of the fact they’d do anything for you. You might not have been driving that other car but
you
killed them.’

It was the first time Tommy had heard either parent verbalise what he himself believed. His guilt and shame had been more crippling than his broken ankle and foot. Try as he might to believe otherwise, each time he thought of his brothers, the first picture that sprang to mind was of their bodies entwined in the car’s wreckage. He wanted to reason with his mother but he had no words. Instead, he continued towards the kitchen with the dirty dishes in hand. But as his crutch caught the table leg, it knocked him off balance and the dishes landed on the Union Jack flags.

‘No!’ yelled his mother, leaping towards them to wipe off the spilt lager and sandwich crusts. ‘You bloody idiot,’ she screamed, her anger taking him by surprise.

As he began a stuttered apology, his mother lunged towards him and slapped him across the face and head with a windmill of flailing arms and hands. Tommy fell to the floor, one of his crutches smashing against his lip and cutting it. He tried to shield his face with his hands as she hit him over and over again before his father dragged her away. His mother collapsed into a sobbing heap on the floor, so his father carefully lifted her up, placed a supporting arm around her waist and helped her out of the room and up the staircase.

Tommy remained on the floor and rolled to his side, trembling and silently grieving.

TODAY

The corridors were unusually silent as a yawning Tommy abandoned sleep and made his way to the lounge to watch some late-night television. The sudden appearance of Peyk carrying a large, sealed cardboard box startled him.

‘Mate, what are you up to at this time of night?’

‘Nothing you need to know about, Tommy-boy,’ smiled Peyk as he walked towards room 23, hovering outside until Tommy was out of sight.

Behind the reception desk Sadie sat drawing a sugar skull on her forearm with a red felt-tip pen.

‘What’s in room 23?’ Tommy asked. ‘There’s never a key for it.’

‘It’s a store room for Ron’s stuff.’

‘What does Ron keep in there?’

Sadie started tapping her nose to say it was none of Tommy’s business, then turned it around to flip him the finger.

*

The stale smell of beer on the cushions no longer bothered Tommy as he sprawled across the lounge sofa and watched an infomercial for a new juicing machine on the television.

From the corner of his eye he saw a man enter and throw himself into an armchair.

‘Can’t sleep either?’ the man began in a British accent.

‘Snorer,’ replied Tommy.

‘You or someone else?’

‘Someone else.’

‘Ah, the universal plague of hostels worldwide,’ nodded the man, scooping his hair behind his head and tying it into a ponytail.

‘Why do they always seem to choose my room?’ continued Tommy.

‘Have you tried the mattress kick?’

‘Yep, didn’t work.’

‘How about smothering their face with a pillow?’

‘Then it’ll be just my luck my death row cellmate snores.’

‘I’m Jake, by the way,’ the man continued, and stretched out a hand. Anyone who first clapped eyes on Jake, male or female, straight or gay, would’ve been struck by his handsomeness, and Tommy was no exception. Jake’s ponytail hung between his shoulder blades; his dark chocolate beard matched the colour of his eyes, which were framed by thick eyelashes. His perfectly aligned teeth shone thanks to a deep tan that dulled a sleeve of dark tattoos poking out from under the cuff of his black jumper.

‘I’m Tommy – good to meet you,’ he replied, trying not to stare too hard. ‘Have you just arrived?’

‘I got in yesterday afternoon from New Zealand so my body clock’s screwed. Is there anywhere round here I can grab a hot chocolate?’

‘There’s an all-night café further up Winward, about ten minutes from here.’

‘Ah, cool. Do you fancy joining me? I mean, if you’re not waiting to see a NASA-designed exercise machine to go with that juicer you seem pretty interested in?’

‘Sure, I’ll get the order number for that tomorrow.’

There are many physical injuries a pole dancer risks on a day-to-day basis that no paying customer would ever consider or care about.

The most common ailments include pole burn to the performer’s inner thighs; the metal pole pinching her skin, callused hands, bruising from a mistimed mount and cracked and torn fingernails. And there’s also the embarrassing risk of accidentally breaking wind when engaging core muscles too vigorously.

After six and a half months of dancing for a living, Savannah had experienced most of those ailments. After each eight-hour shift at the Pink Pussycat Club, she moaned with relief once she unzipped her white PVC boots, pulled up her jogging bottoms and spread her toes out comfortably inside a pair of sneakers.

‘Savvy, you going to join us for a beer?’ asked Mindy, waiting alongside two others dancers who’d also finished their shifts.

‘Can I take a rain check? I’m tired, so I’m gonna catch a cab home.’

‘Jeez, you’re no fun anymore,’ replied Mindy, ‘it’s been weeks since we last hit Sunset.’

‘I’m sorry, guys, next week maybe?’

‘Okay, we’ll hold you to that. Sleep well, baby girl.’

Savannah smiled as they made their way out of the changing room and through the club to the entrance, while Savannah opted for the rear exit to avoid any over-enthusiastic punters making clumsy, last-ditch attempts to woo her.

But as she walked towards 3rd Street Promenade’s cab rank, she felt a hand press down heavy on her shoulder. She froze.

‘My, my, Savannah; you’re a hard girl to track down.’

Declan waited by the side of the bath, listening to the pipes gurgle and splutter before lukewarm water finally dribbled from the shower nozzle.

He climbed under it while Matty stood by the sink using the last of his cheap, disposable razors that should’ve been thrown away weeks ago. Declan couldn’t help but notice how thin Matty was beginning to look.

Ingrid and Anna, two Belgian women from the floor above them with whom they’d just spent an intimate evening, had just left their room.

‘Where are we meeting the girls for breakfast?’ asked Declan, waiting patiently for the water to wash the hand soap he’d used as shampoo from his hair.

‘Starbucks at 9 a.m., and they’re paying,’ Matty replied with a grateful smile.

‘Bring it on! Croissants, fresh orange juice, blueberry muffins and actual fruit instead of the usual fast food shite for us, then.’

‘Did your bird ask anything about why we’re here?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You didn’t tell her, did you?’

Declan glanced at his friend with both eyebrows raised. ‘Do you think I’m stupid?’

THIRTEEN MONTHS EARLIER – NAVAN, IRELAND

Since they’d first met at primary school some twenty-five years earlier, Matty and Declan had yet to run out of conversation. They’d repeatedly bicker in the way best friends do about football, women, music and films or anything else that took their fancy. And because they could often predict what each other was about to argue, the result was always the same – neither would budge an inch or dare offer a potentially incorrect statistic for fear of giving the other the upper hand.

But as they began wandering through Navan’s quiet market square, a nervous silence surrounded them. Both knew what the other was thinking, but neither felt the need to discuss it further than they had already.

It had taken almost an hour and a half to get to the county town on two different buses from their home in Dundalk. But after three reconnaissance trips in the last ten days, they’d grown accustomed to the trek and they’d often ended the day watching international rugby matches on Sky Sports with the locals in the Central Navan bar. Not today, however, because today it was time to get down to business.

‘Ready?’ asked Declan, looking Matty firmly in the eye.

‘Yep,’ nodded Matty. ‘Let's do it.’

Together, they reached into their jacket pockets, removed black woollen balaclavas and put them on. Then they pulled pistols out from the dark blue duffel bags slung over their shoulders and opened the door to the post office.

A shiver ran down Savannah’s spine when she felt the hand on her shoulder.

She cursed herself for her complacency in leaving her revolver at the hostel; after the incident when she first arrived in the city five months earlier which rapidly reshaped her plans from there on in, she should have known better.

Then in the two months since her attempted abduction, Savannah had been on constant alert, scouring both the hostel and the Pink Pussycat’s clientele for anyone who appeared to be paying her too much attention. She only ever left the club alone to hail a taxi back to the hostel; she no longer walked anywhere at night, and she dispensed with headphones when in public to help her remain alert.

A dark people carrier vehicle with blacked-out windows pulled up in front of her, and by the sound of multiple footsteps, she worked out there were at least three people standing behind her. She trembled as the hand on her shoulder guided her towards the vehicle and a man in dark glasses with an earpiece opened the door and ushered her inside.

A husky, middle-aged man in a grey, tailored suit followed, then removed his horn-rimmed glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose as the door closed.

Savannah swallowed hard before she spoke. ‘How did he find me?’

Quietly she vowed she would scratch, scream, bite and kick until her last breath rather than allow his vehicle to move.

SEVEN MONTHS EARLIER – MONTGOMERY, ALABAMA

She didn’t have time to avoid the open hand that slapped her hard across the face.

But its brute force and the element of surprise caused an unguarded Savannah to lose her footing and she fell against the display cabinet by the porch’s entrance. She yelped as someone grabbed the back of her long, brown hair and pulled her to her feet, a handful of extensions falling onto the mahogany floorboards.

Savannah saw the hand rise again and she turned her head to avoid it, but this time her ear received its force. It instantly rang from the pain and muffled the shouting coming from her attacker’s mouth.

‘You filthy whore!’ screamed Reverend Devereaux, ‘You goddam filthy whore.’

The last time she had witnessed her father’s violence was when one of his cleaners accidentally dropped a valuable china figurine, shattering it. His immediate reaction was to slap the woman then fire her, knowing her illegal immigrant status meant she wouldn’t dare report him to the police. He used his influence with the authorities to have her deported anyway.

The Reverend grabbed his eldest daughter and brought her face so close to his that she struggled to focus on him, but she was still aware of a darkness in his eyes she’d never seen before.

‘How long has it been going on for?’