I hadn’t been at the community centre when her dad had faced his trial by public humiliation. But there were enough people there who had been, and the footage was all over the internet for everyone to see. Guys dressed all in black, hiding their faces with bandanas and hoodies, had kept her parents prisoners on the stage whilst a premade video played out to the audience, telling them all that Alec Winters, Emily’s dad, had been laundering money through businesses in Sandland for some pretty shady people. They also exposed his part in his son’s death.
Apparently, he’d picked his son up after having a few too many whiskeys and then crashed the car. His son died right there in the passenger seat, and Mr Man-of-the-people had used an accomplice to move Emily’s brother’s body into the driver’s side and left him there. His own son, and he’d deserted him when he needed him the most in favour of his political career. A career based on lies, seeing as he also had a long-term mistress and a daughter hidden away in the capital. I suppose, when you really thought about it, Emily’s life was as much of a train wreck as mine.
“We’ve all got our ghosts to contend with. Some of us more than others,” Emily said, breaking through my reverie.
“Ghosts. I’m seeing a lot of those recently.” I clamped my mouth shut. I needed to get out of there before Emily’s soothing voice and sympathy had me spilling all of my secrets.
Emily stood up and went over to her handbag that was lying on the kitchen counter behind us.
“I think we’re more alike than you care to admit. I didn’t like talking to people about my brother, Danny, when he died. I didn’t see the point. It wouldn’t bring him back. But for some reason, I kept these. They weren’t much use to me, but they might help you.”
She handed me a bunch of leaflets. I thumbed through them, seeing grief counselling, ways to deal with the loss of a loved one, and other titles that all blended into one. She continued making her point as I flicked through them.
“I never could stomach seeing a counsellor, but I did try some of the online forums and chats. If you prefer chatting online as opposed to face-to-face, it might help.” She reached forward and pulled a leaflet up from the pile to show me. “This one has a chatroom for teens and young adults that have lost a sibling. It’s probably the best of the lot. I used to spend quite a few nights letting off steam in there. The guys in that chat, they get it. They don’t judge, and they sometimes say stuff that’ll help. It’s no miracle cure, but it’s a chance to have a voice, to be heard. I think you need that, Harper. You need to be heard.”
I sat, dazed, turning the leaflets over and over in my hand.
“I’ll give it a try,” I said, looking up at her.
I stood up and walked back towards the door. Then I stopped and turned to face them both.
“I’ll pay for the damage. I shouldn’t have done that.” It wasn’t a sorry, but it was a start.
“Kieron’s probably already fixed it by now. Don’t sweat it,” Ryan said, opening the door for me to leave.
“Harper,” Emily called out, making me stop on the path and turn to face her. “We’re here for you. Anytime you need to talk, just come over. Even if you want to ramble a load of nonsense, we’ll listen.” Then she lurched forward and grabbed me in a hug. I took it, but I didn’t return the sentiment, just left my arms hanging limply at my side as she clung to me.
“Anything,” she reiterated as I pulled away.
I nodded absent-mindedly and then wandered back over to my car. I was a walking zombie in an apocalyptic post-Brodie world, where Renaissance men and their girlfriends hugged me and offered me tea and sympathy, and people I thought were life-long friends treated me like complete and utter shit.
I had one foot in the mortuary and one still stuck in the fucked-up place I used to call home.
Sandland.
Half the population lived hand-to-mouth, while the other would cut your hand off if it meant they could buy another car to go with the ones that sat gathering dust on their massive driveways. The class divide had never been so wide. But I was a class all of my own.
No family, apart from my nan. I pushed envelopes full of money through her door most weeks; whatever was left over from the cash-in-hand jobs I did on the building sites I walked every morning.
No home, unless you counted the derelict high-rise covered in shit, piss, and graffiti that’d made Finn, Sandland’s own Banksy, have sleepless nights. A cold hard floor and a sleeping bag were my home now. Even the rats didn’t show up anymore, preferring a better class of shithole than the one I lived in. But it kept me hidden, and I didn’t get soaked in the rain. Well, not much, as long as I stayed away from the broken windows when it really poured down.
As for my friends? I’d thought I was a rich man a few months ago. A man who has friends he can count on, that he can trust with his life, is a rich man indeed. Turned out I was as piss poor in that respect as I was financially. And that was why I spent most days watching them, trying to see if there was a hint of remorse from either one of them. Those days, when there was no work at the building sites, I usually camped out in Sandland. Chose one of them to watch as they went on their merry way, enjoying their shitty little lives without me.
Not her though.
I saved my visits to her for the night-time. I liked knowing she was in her house, thinking she was safe, but she wasn’t. None of them would ever be safe again. Not if I had my way.
I sat with my hoody down low over my face as I swigged on a can of cheap, knock-off Coke and sat on the wall a few feet down from Ryan’s garage. They never noticed me. I’d sat here a few times, sometimes for hours, watching them working, laughing, joking about like they didn’t have a fucking care in the world. They didn’t though, did they? They didn’t have the law coming after them, ready to send them down for a crime they didn’t commit.
Bare-knuckle boxing wasn’t illegal in our country, so why the fuck was there a warrant out for my arrest? The last time I’d spoken to Pat Murphy, the guy who’d organised the fight, he’d told me to lay low. Told me it wasn’t worth showing my face around Sandland. That’d been weeks ago, and I was still hiding like the freak she was painting me out to be. Enough was enough. Shit had to start changing real soon, and I was going to change it.
I watched as a car pulled onto the forecourt and then she got out, her blonde hair whipping in the wind as she stomped over to the workshop where Kieron was.
What the fuck was she doing there?
I leant forward as she took something off the workbench then marched over to a van parked in front of the office and started banging the shit out of the windscreen.
This chick was crazy.
Fucking nuts.
I couldn’t stop myself from laughing at her. What the fuck was she doing, kicking off at the Hardys like that? I thought I was mental, but she definitely had a screw loose. Face of an angel and temperament of a psychotic bitch. I had to admit, deep down, it turned me on. In a fucked up, I’d never go there, she’s completely insane, kind of way. But still, it did something to me. The girl had balls. I liked girls with balls.
She lifted her arm up to hit it again, and like a crap reality T.V. show, I couldn’t bring myself to switch off or look away. This shit was too entertaining.