Life Before
It is cold. I had a hard time warming up. Encroaching frost began to scale the timbered cracks of our ramshackle shed. My warm breath against the frigid air misted into small puffs. I am buried in an oversized hoodie, but the jogging bottoms had seen better days. The material strangled my ankles, threatening to tear at the seams. Luckily, the thermal socks kept frostbite at bay, and if winter kicked arse, I had insulated gloves.
I am taller now. I sound older, too. It's the throaty voice, I guess. It's thicker, deeper and huskier than it used to be.
Morning-glory transpired often. When I lived at Briar House, I loathed the unpredictableness of my shaft. It had a mind of its own. It came alive at the most humiliating of moments, and because of lack of privacy, it was difficult to ease the ache. Now, with Bill roused at the crack of dawn, headed into Victoria, I had hours to kill. It's become a ritual. I did my business every morning before I ventured into London, and, well, it felt good, and I liked it.
Fucking sue me.
In addition, I had more control over my arousal. My dick doesn't jerk to life impulsively anymore, which I appreciated. There is nothing more embarrassing than a raging boner in the proximity of cute girls.
Speaking of girls, I am pretty stoked about those sleek legs and ample curves. I paid attention to details, the dip in their spines, the sound of their laughter and the way their eyes brightened when they smiled.
Yeah, I liked a girl with pretty eyes. It's her innocence that warmed me most.
You see, I am a sucker for unassuming females. If she's pretty yet modest, I am drawn to her.
Girls did not notice me, though. Even if they did, I doubt they'd want to pursue a homeless bum that lived in a tumbledown shed with an alcoholic.
On Bill's thumbs-up, I started shaving three months ago. I had to groom the ever-growing stubble, eventually. My shoulder-length hair stayed in a top-knot while I saved extra cash to visit the barber. Bill offered to put the sheers on my head, which I declined. I liked Bill. Hell, oftentimes, I loved him. But he is a functioning alcoholic. I did not trust him to trim the mane in his unstable state. His hands trembled due to alcohol withdrawal. Well, until he accumulated money to visit the liquor store to get his fix. Only then would his anxiousness end.
Bill had a huge problem. He is recognised in London. When shop owners spotted him headed their way, they stood on the door and refused entry. If he stumped up the cash, they'd hand over the goods.
Alas, for Bill, the days of robbing stores have long passed. He cannot step foot over the door without confrontation.
Bill is a big guy. He is tall, stern, intimidating, but Bill is a softie at heart. He doesn't like trouble or conflict. He would never lay down the law and make demands or rough people up to get what he wanted.
No, Bill is good people.
He tries to do better.
Adjusting the beanie hat on my head, I placed two flagons of cider on the workbench and, blowing into my palms, rubbing them together, I slumped onto the array of sleeping bags on the floor.
If Bill is in no position to thieve, I can intervene. It's on me to provide now just as long as I don't get caught.
I had a new book.
Healing The Shame That Binds You by John Bradshaw.
Tucking one arm behind my head, I stretched out on the floor and read highlighted passages.
Shame is internalised when abandoned. Abandonment is the precise term to describe how one loses one's authentic self and ceases to exist psychologically.
"Since the earliest period of our life was preverbal, everything depended on emotional interaction," I read, turning the page. "Without someone to reflect our emotions, we had no way of knowing who we were."
I hummed.
"Hell, in my opinion, is never finding your true self and never living your own life or knowing who you are."
I re-read the quote repeatedly.
"Who am I?" I stood to pace the hoarded space. "Who. Am. I?" My shoulders drooped. "I am an unwanted child. I live in a shed with a drunk dude. I eat stolen food to survive." Staring at the messy bed, I clasped the back of my head. "I am no one."
"Yuh name is Liam Warren." At the intrusion of Bill's voice, I spun around to face him. "Yuh ain't nobody. Yuh somebody." He stepped right up to me, his eyes fierce and determined. "Warren is inevitable."
I swallowed the knot in my throat. "Poetic."
"Seer." He tapped his temple. "Yuh still readin' those books, huh?
I nodded.
"Good," he approved. "Knowledge is the key to success." Removing his leather gloves, he tossed them on the metal shelving unit. "I earned some extra dollars this afternoon." Shaking rain droplets from his dreads, he closed the rickety door. "Yuh gonna be thrilled, Liam." He noticed the alcohol on the workbench, and his ebullience plummeted. "What did yuh do?"
My brow arched. "I got you some cider."
He looked sad yet grateful. "Wah mek yuh duh that?"
Great. He's angry. I always know when he's pissed because he accentuates every damn word in Jamaican. "Honestly, I can't handle your mood swings. You are irritable without alcohol."
"Mi nuh jink," he scolded, the vein in his neck pulsating. "Mi tryin' tuh quit."
I frowned. "Since when?"
"No more drink."
My frown deepened. "Yeah, but—"
"No," he berated, and my lips sealed. "Bill ain't interested."
Not wanting to argue, I pointed to the carrier bag in his hand. "What did you get? And why does it smell so good?"
"Yuh gonna love it." Unwrapping two newspaper parcels, he motioned to heaps of chips and battered fish. "Bill did well, huh?"
My stomach growled. "You've been banging on about chippy since I met you."
Passing me a plastic fork and a ketchup sachet, he delved into his food with delight. "I love fish and chips."
Forking greasy fodder around the newspaper, I delved in, sampling the goods. "Damn." Salt and vinegar never tasted so good. "I'll want one of these bad boys every night, now."
"Good, huh?" His eyes glittered. "Bill needs to shower. Is the hose still runnin'?"
"Hardly," I said, and he cursed. "It's winter. Damn cold, too. It froze the pipe."
"Enuff seh," he mumbled, his eyes dark and dejected. "Bill gotta sleep." His hands shook while peeling the leather coat from his body. "Get fi bed."
It's still early. "Sure, Bill."
Bill went to his side of the shed, rolled out the sleeping bag and curled into a fetal position on the floor. His light snores followed, and his shivers increased. Shoving leftover food in the carrier bag, I took the blanket from my bed and draped it over his body. Hell, I am worried about him. It's too cold, and I don't want him to get sick. I can survive one night without additional covers. If all else fails, I will go out the front and run laps to warm up.
Two jogging sessions later, I returned to the shed, tired and aching. I fell asleep for what seemed like minutes before Bill jabbed me in the shoulder. "What?" I groaned as he poked and prodded. "What, Bill? Let me sleep."
"Liam," he hissed, and my eyes flew open. "Tenants."
Rubbing my eyes, I staggered to my feet and peered through the wooden cracks. Watching a young couple unpack their car, conveying large cardboard boxes into the house, I tampered down disappointment. "We have to leave, don't we?"
Bill's packing ceased, the backpack falling to his feet. "Yeah."
I blew out an exhausted breath. "But I like it here."
"Bill likes it here, too." He scrubbed a hand over his features. "It's all good. Survival skills, remember?"
I had little to pack: two books and the clothes on my back. "Then, what are we waiting for?" Whipping the bag strap over one shoulder, I gestured to the door. "Elders first."
Clipping the back of my head, he limped across the threshold. "Bill ain't no elder."
I beg to differ.
We never quite found somewhere decent to live again. Nothing compared to the shed. From one alleyway to another, we bounced between unsafe destinations hoping for some semblance of home in the future. Times were hard, yet Bill still got up at the crack of dawn to walk into Victoria, where he played for hours on end to earn cash. I, however, upped the ante on theft. You see, I had an issue with begging people for pennies. It was degrading, humiliating.
Please, Sir. Can I have some more?
I snorted.
No, I am not Oliver Twist. You won't see me with my hands out, pleading for scraps or copper coins.
Where is the best place to pickpocket?
Tourist attractions.
Trusting, unsuspecting sightseers.
The Underground.
Stressful, preoccupied commuters.
I'll settle for the tube. People will be less inclined to chase me there. By the time I swipe something, they'll already be on the train. It's easy enough to snatch bags or swipe phones from loiters. Like the woman sitting on the metal bench engrossed in conversation with the man on her right. Her black handbag lay on the floor by her feet. Guesstimating the distance from here to the stairs, I sidled close to the couple and, without a second thought, snatched the bag and fled the scene. Nobody foresaw the wicked intention. Hell, they yelled blasphemy as I bolted toward the exit, though. Fuck, I don't think I'd ever run so fast in my life.
Jumping on the bike from the alleyway, I balanced the bag on the handlebar and cycled to safety.
I uncovered a hidden gem that afternoon.
Marsh Lane Allotments.
Numerous greenhouses stockpiled the gated yard. Knowing maintained glass buildings had frequent visitors from owners, I searched for an unmaintained possibility and found just the right place. Hiding the bike in overgrowth, I scoured the vicinity, cracked open the door to the cedar woodshed and popped my head inside. Okay, so the compost bags and expired fertiliser took up a lot of space, but there was enough room to squat.
Emptying the woman's handbag on the floor, chucking cosmetics, perfume and receipts aside, I unzipped the snakeskin purse and thanked the heavens above. Stuffing three hundred quid in my sock for a rainy day, I dropped loose change into my pocket and peddled to Victoria.
***
"How did yuh find this place?" Bill tucked into fried rice. "I like it. Bill wants to stay."
"Just lucky, I guess." I sat opposite him on the floor, eating gravy and chips. "I am officially addicted to unhealthy food."
"It's good stuff." He smiled widely. "Where did yuh get the money?"
I masked deceit. "I begged for change by the palace."
He harrumphed. "How much?"
"Here." Handing over twenty quid, I kept the rest hidden for later. "Keep this."
"Well done, Liam." Folding the money, he stuffed it in his guitar case alongside his earnings. "I'll try and get yuh a new hoodie and trunks this week. Yuh are too big for that tracksuit. I'm savin' those pounds for trainers too so that we can replace yuh old ones."
Yeah, I had holes in these trainers. "It's okay. I can manage for a while longer." A thought occurred to me. "Where did you go?"
Bill eyed me warily. "What do yuh mean?"
"I came to Victoria early." He was not playing at his regular spot, but he made sure to be there at six p.m. when I was due to arrive. "Did you play elsewhere?" When he didn't respond, I looked up to see his crestfallen eyes showing defeat. "What's wrong, Bill? You look a little lost over there."
"I have been thinkin'. It's no life for yuh, Liam. All this movin' around, beggin' for leftovers from the common folk." He tied the dreads atop his head. "Did somethin' bad happen to yuh while in the system? Is that why yuh don't wanna go back? It's still a warm bed at night and decent fodder in yuh stomach, right? Yuh fourteen. Survive another year, reach the legal requirement, and the government will set yuh up somewhere. Maybe a nice one-bedroom flat or bedsit. They'll give yuh money, too, until yuh get a well-paid job. Who knows? Yuh might be able to work part-time, attend college and get a degree." He smiled sadly. "Yuh can sit in one of those top-notch offices someday."
"What did I do?" I whispered, and he looked confused. "I didn't ask to be in this world, Bill. I didn't ask to fall into the hands of unloving parents. I didn't ask to grow up in the system, to be flung from family to family, wing to fucking wing." I stood, wiping a loan tear from my cheek. "I didn't ask for any of this! Yet here I am, clinging to a good for nothing homeless bum, so I don't have to sleep alone at night..."
His eyes rounded, and I immediately regretted my harshness.
"I'm sorry," I said, and I meant it. "I didn't mean that, Bill. I am just..." Angry, sad, hurt. "I love you. You're the first person who treated me like I'm not some worthless burden..."
Bill's eyes cast to the floor.
"Don't worry. I should be thanking you for tolerating me for so long." Pulling the hoodie over my head, I reached for the backpack. "I ain't going back to Briar House, though, Bill. You're right. One more year on these godforsaken streets, and I'll get something stellar."
"Don't do that." He pushed to his feet. "Yuh got it wrong, Liam. It's not because I don't care about yuh. If anythin', I care too much. I just feel for yuh, lad. Yuh don't deserve to live like this."
"But I'm happy with you."
Bill grasped my shoulder. "And that's all that matters."
I did not understand Bill's pained expression or why he looked conflicted that night.
It would be weeks later before we revisited previous disputes.
"Weh ave yuh been?" Bill reprimanded. "Mi did worry sick about yuh, Liam! Yuh left before the crack of dawn and didn't come home until the fuckin' moon ridiculed mi!"
Shit, he's moody tonight. "I found another family," I said, and his eyes rolled. "What? I don't talk to them. I just watch them interact and stuff."
"That's not crazy at all."
I stared unblinkingly.
"Yuh fuckin' batshit crazy," he spat, and I stormed into the shed. "What the fuck is wrong with yuh? Why do yuh go-'round stalking other families? Yuh askin' for trouble."
I am not stalking anyone.
At least, I don't consider it as stalking. It's fun, somewhat heartfelt, to see families together. The park is my favourite. Father's play football with their sons. Mothers laugh with their daughters. I simply eat peanuts, wishing I could join them.
"Park yuh bottom. I got somethin' to show yuh."
Tossing the backpack on the floor, I sat on the bag of compost and waited impatiently. While he was busy, I noticed the empty bottle of cider under his sleeping bag. "I thought you quit drinking."
"Don't judge mi." His back stiffened. "Yuh need to close yuh eyes."
My eyes closed.
"And don't be peekin', or I'll slap yuh."
I smiled mischievously. "You know, I am bigger than you, right?"
"Ain't too big for a slap." He came closer. "And quit gettin' chopsy. I don't like it. I don't care how tall yuh get. I can still smack the smirk off yuh face." I heard a click. "Open yuh eyes,"
I slowly peeled my eyes open to see one dancing flame.
Holding one candle lit cupcake, he crouched in front of me. "Happy fifteenth birthday."
My eyes watered.
"Go ahead," he prompted. "Blow out the candle and make a wish."
I am paralysed. "You got me a birthday cake?"
"It's a cupcake," he corrected smugly, and I cracked a lopsided grin. "Don't be makin' me cry, Liam. Just blow out the damn candle and make a wish."
I leaned forward, whispered a wish across the flame, and asked the stars to keep us together. "Thank you, Bill." Removing the candle, I sank my teeth into chocolate frosting. "Do you want to share?"
"Not after yuh lapped it up like that," he joked.
Unable to look at him while I spoke, I studied the cake in my hand. "I love you, Bill."
"Yeah," he croaked. "I love yuh too, mi boy."
That night, I roused to the sound of Bill's husky voice. Wiping sleep from my eyes, I unscrambled from the sleeping bag and dragged myself to the door. Bill sat on an overturned plant pot, strumming his guitar. "It's not warm when she's away."
I joined him, sitting on the grass.
His fingers stilled on the guitar strings, and then, he sang, "Ain't no sunshine when she's gone. And she's always gone too long. Anytime," he strummed, "she goes away..."
I hated the sadness in his eyes. "You've been playing that song a lot recently, Bill." My throat thickened. "Why?"
"Mind yuh business," he retorted, more cantankerous than usual.
My eyebrows met my hairline. "Someone's moody this morning." His glumness taunted apprehensions. "What's wrong? Why do you keep shit from me? I want you to talk to me."
"It's nothin'."
"It's something."
After a long pause, he said, "Alright." He set the guitar on the floor with a slight tremble in his hand. "Bill got somethin' to tell yuh."
I knew it was bad—felt it to the bone.
"Yuh will be sixteen before we know it." His hands clasped together. "I guess yuh came a long way from the little, chopsy boy I found on the bench that day..." His cheeks hollowed on a low inhale. "Bill might die, Liam. The doctor said, I ain't seen' six months without treatment."
"Doctor? Treatment?" I stuttered. "What, doctor? You didn't tell me about no doctor. When? How? What's wrong with you?"
"Don't panic." His hands raised. "It's all good. Bill got it figured out."
My heart stopped beating. "Why are you sick?"
Bill mulled over my direct question. "Cancer is a bitch, huh?"
"No." My entire world came crashing down on me. "You can't have cancer." Jumping to my feet, I thrust a hand through my hair. "That's not fair! You can't leave me. I don't want to be alone again. You know, I can't live without you."
"Let me tell yuh somethin!" He matched my stance. "Yuh was put on this earth with goddamn nothin', but that shit doesn't define yuh. Yuh don't need somebody to hold yuh hand. Yuh are a smart boy. Yuh will figure it out." He grabbed my head, his thumbs kneading my temples. "Don't be worryin' about old Bill, alright? Yuh gonna sort yuh life out."
A tear trickled down my cheek. "But I don't know how."
Bill suppressed tears. "I got yuh somethin'," he said thickly, revealing an old firearm from behind his back. "It's a Colt Government. Mi got it from the Royal Navy." He placed the cold metal on my palm. "It is for yuh now."
"I don't want no damn pistol. What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Listen to mi," he yelled, and I wired my mouth shut. "Yuh need to listen 'cause mi only gonna tell yuh this once. There is a gated community down in Kingston. Yuh won't miss it, Liam. Nice houses, the better half. Yuh will be scared, but yuh can't back out. Number nineteen. Don't be forgettin' that number. It's important that yuh find the right one. The owner leaves a key under the mat. Yuh might notice some surveillance and dog warnin' signs, but that's bravado. Take the key, unlock the front door and go into the office. Don't ask Bill how he knows all this—just pay attention. Nothin' strenuous nor complicated. The code to the safe is four zeros—very fuckin' original. I want yuh to unlock the safe and take everythin', and don't be leavin' scraps behind. Yuh gonna need that money."
I was disordered, nauseated. "I thought we didn't steal from decent folks."
"That didn't stop yuh from snatchin' the ladies handbag."
Oh, fuck. "How did you know?"
He popped an eyebrow. "Yuh left the evidence in a bush over there."
I dragged a hand over my features. "You want me to break into some random person's house and steal their money?" I asked in disbelief. "What about the cops? I'll get caught."
His rough hands grasped my cheeks. "Redeem yourself."
Benumbed, I nodded.
"I got one wish, and that's for yuh to be the best version of yourself. Yuh will use yuh pain, anger and resentment to become a man." He carefully slid the gun into my bag. "If yuh want somethin' bad enough, then take it. Don't accept nothin' but the best."
I knuckled tears from my cheek. "Why do I need a gun?"
"Maybe yuh won't." He shrugged. "Bill got the feelin' yuh will."
After that night, everything changed. Bill wanted to live the remainder of his life in solitude, where he took great pleasure in playing his guitar. He grew sombre, weak and tired. He no longer travelled to Victoria to play music.
I had to venture far and wide to obtain extra supplies. Each time I ran with a handbag or stole notes from someone withdrawing funds from the cashpoint, I became more and more indifferent, careless, withdrawn and unsympathetic.
"Why don't you get treatment?" I asked one night.
Bill stared at the shed's thatched ceiling. "I have to sign into the hospital."
Bending the paperback, I chucked it in the bin as I no longer cared to read. "Then, go to the hospital."
His eyes shut on a strained exhale. "I ain't leavin' you."
"I'll be fine by myself."
"Yuh gotta hit sixteen," he said sleepily. "It'll be safe for yuh, then."
The only person I had ever loved deteriorated before my eyes.
My heart broke.
Bill mostly sleeps. He doesn't eat much anymore, either.
He stopped playing music.
He barely ate.
Securing headphones to my ears, I sat next to him one afternoon, keeping an eye on his heavy breathing. "I see the crystal raindrops fall," I sang quietly to the song. "And the beauty of it all. It is when the sun comes shining through. To make those rainbows in my mind. When I think of you sometimes." Tears blinded vision. "And I wanna spend some time with you."
"Just the two of us," he croaked, interlacing out fingers. "We can make it if we try. Just the two of us."
Licking tears from my lips, I whispered, "Building castles in the sky."
His thumb brushed my knuckles. "You and I."
My head fell to his chest, and I burst into tears.
"It's okay, mi boy." He sounded breathless. "Yuh will be fine. I have great faith in yuh."
That night, while Bill slept, I unlocked the guitar case and borrowed his notepad. He penned lyrics on every page. I found a clean sheet at the back, tore it in half and scribbled something down for him.
Bill,
You loved me enough to stay.
I love you enough to walk away.
I will never forget,
Liam.
Leaving the note in his bag, I pulled the beanie over my head and left my old life behind with the bag slung over one shoulder.
How I felt was unexplainable. All I can say is I cried more than I had ever cried in my entire life. I missed him with each step, but I knew I had made the right choice. He was dying right before my eyes. At least, without caring for some stray kid, he can go to the hospital. Sure, it might be too late for treatment. But he can sleep in a warm bed and pass peacefully in his sleep.
I peddled in slow-motion, witnessing the world go by, replaying the last few years in my mind. I made another pit stop, bought myself a sandwich and forced food in my stomach.
I'd never felt so alone like I did that night.
My fingers wiggled into Bill's leather gloves. As instructed, I took the key from under the mat and unlocked the front door to what I'd call a mansion. I was greeted by luxurious furnishings, rich carpets, crystal chandeliers, and marble floors. I admired the vast foyer and glanced at the wall-mounted portraits. A family. Husband and wife. Two daughters.
Guilt struck my chest. I almost backed out. "Fuck."
I checked the doors until I located the office. Peering over one shoulder to ensure nobody was around, I entered the room, left the door ajar and eyed the four walls. I examined the large painting exhibited on the alcove. My fingers curled around the gilded frame to reveal the hidden safe.
How the fuck did Bill know all this?
I punched the code to the safe.
It unlocked.
"Holy shit." I don't think I've had the pleasure of seeing fifty-pound notes before. I daren't count these. I'll have a heart attack. While clumsily emptying the safe and filling the backpack, I knocked a vintage-looking box over. It scattered jewellery and documents across the floor. "Shit." I squatted, tossed the folders and stole the gold.
I flipped open a passport,
Light-headedness almost stole the air from my lungs.
Raymond Warren.
I scrutinised the mugshot.
Is this a coincidence?
If so, why am I on the verge of vomiting?
I overturned an image.
Bill and Raymond huddled close with the picturesque Caribbean Island as their backdrop. "Brother from another mother," I read the penmanship. "What?"
I felt betrayed, confused, angry, hurt.
Standing abruptly, I rounded the desk, fired the laptop and roamed the internet.
Raymond (Ray) Warren, CEO of sales company, Telecomservices.co. Married to wife, Evelyn, two stepdaughters—I skimmed over unnecessary details, then paused—divorced. Previous wife, V. J. W. "Come on," I complained, opening articles, hoping for more—anything more.
What more did I need, though?
It's evident why Bill sent me here—to Raymond's house. A man who was his friend? My alleged father? Or am I jumping to conclusions? Loads of people have similar surnames—the wife, though. The one he divorced. Could she be my mother? Do I care enough to find out?
Bill lied to me.
No one wanted you, Liam.
You're just a nobody.
I fisted my hair.
That's not true.
You are better than this, Liam.
You don't need to do something stupid.
Leave everything and walk away.
Just leave...
My eyes opened.
Redeem yourself.
Taking the gun out of the bag, I weighed it in my hands and stared into the dark hallway.
Blood roared in my ears.
Raymond Warren left me to rot. He married another woman. He left my mother behind to raise two girls that belonged to another man. He lived amid affluence and lavishness.
He didn't want you.
Someone must have informed him of my mother's death.
He still didn't want you.
You were put in the system.
He still didn't want you.
Bill's husky voice whispered in my ear, "Become a man."
Rage took over my body.
I ascended the stairs.
Old floorboards groaned under my weight.
I entered the master bedroom and stood by the dominating four-poster king-sized bed. I touched the silk coverlet with an investigatory hand and listened to their soft breathing: husband and wife.
Raymond sensed an appearance. His large, plump body rolled over and his eyes, widening in horror, spotted an intruder. "Wait." Hands raising in surrender, he dragged himself upright. "Take whatever you want. Just don't hurt us."
We had the same blue eyes. "I emptied your safe," I said, and his eyebrows met in the middle. "You are a wealthy man, Ray."
"And you're just a kid." He glared at the gun in my hand. "Why would you throw your life away? Be sensible. I'll even help you."
He had no idea who I was.
My eyes glazed over, and for a fleeting moment, emotional pain immobilised me. For years, I watched families from afar, wishing my mother organised garden parties and picnics, wishing my father took me to those parks and taught me how to play football.
Maybe I did jump to conclusions.
Perhaps he wasn't aware of my existence.
Ray looked haunted. "Liam," he said, and my muscles tightened. "It can't be."
"Oh, Lord!" the wife shrieked, her pink hair rollers skewed. "Who is that boy, Raymond? What is he doing in our house?"
"Shut the fuck up!" I yelled, aiming the gun in her direction. "Tell her to be quiet, or I will shoot."
"Darling." He patted her thigh. "Please calm down. Stop crying." He flung me a long glare. "Son..."
"You left me to rot!" I snapped, his awareness awakening a rage I hadn't known lived inside me. "You didn't care..."
He tried to stand but bristled when I jerked the gun. "Son—"
"You don't get to call me that," I whispered as tears streamed down my cheeks. "You didn't know, Ray. You didn't know about me. That's why I never saw you." The truth laid bare in his regretful eyes. "Right?"
His lips pressed together.
"You selfish bastard," I mumbled, wiping my cheeks. "My mother died, but you already knew about that, didn't you?"
"I am calling the police," the wife shrieked, flinging over the covers.
Panicking, I pulled the trigger. Her body collapsed disjointedly on the bed.
I paled.
What have I done?
"Evelyn!" Raymond pulled his wife's lifeless body into his arms. "No," he sobbed, examining the blood doused to her white nightgown. "Please, no."
I stopped breathing.
I killed someone.
I fucking killed someone.
"Liam," Ray bemoaned, his pain howling into the night. "You murdered my wife." His gaze paralysed me. "Diablo."
My lip curled in disgust.
I pulled the trigger.
"—Bossman," Brad shouted, and my eyes flew open. "What, we sleep on the job now?" A toothpick perched at the corner of his mouth. "Are you sick or something?"
"No." I rubbed a palm over my weary features. "Tired."
His eyes sliced. "Who the fuck is Bill?"
I feigned puzzlement. "How the hell should I know?"
He was sceptical. "You said his name..."
"Since when were you authorised to ask me questions?"
"Fair enough." He prepared to leave. "I'm overdue some time off—not literally—but Cherry's waiting for me downstairs, so call me if you need anything. If not, I'd like to get my cock wet in peace."
I waited until he left before I breathed.
My eyes landed on the Tower Bridge painting.
A guitarist stood on the embankment.
A young boy listened to him sing.
Nostalgia inflated my lungs.
Opening the desk drawer, I reached for the old leather gloves and smoothed my thumb across faded grooves.
I voiced gratitude for divine redemption. "I never forgot, Bill."
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