The view is a mosaic of greys. Rain pummels the buildings that line the horizon like puzzle pieces. Water streams down the window, shattering the view. Making a world of concrete into something abstract, something beautiful. My fingers itch for the phone that I have kept politely in my pocket. I want to capture this. I want to remember.
Through the crooked teeth of the city, I see it. My heart aches like I'm looking at something beautiful. Something precious. A decades-old car park is now a building site. Its skeletal structure claws upward towards the miserable sky like it can escape its fate. I can make out the wrecking ball as the crane pulls back and slams into the concrete. Dust billows into the sky, forming a cloud of dirt. The structure crumbles as fragile as chalk. My hand goes to the icy window, and condensation grips my fingertips.
Somewhere amongst the dust and rubble, I wonder if a hint of us remains. Some insignificant sign that we were there. That we had stood and looked across the city, at this very hospital, together. That we existed in the same space. My chest tightens and everything comes at me in flashes and waves - the cold leather seat under my skin, the taste of his lips, the smell of petrol, the shrieks of laughter from the kids on the level above.
Owen. I didn't want it to hurt still, but it did.
"Calla?" Dad's gruff voice cracks through my lost thoughts as another mushroom of dust launches above the city. There's no room for doubt in my father's tone. I plaster the bland smile on my lips, seeing the mirror version of myself in the glass and twist. "Calla, are you listening to Doctor Shepherd?" I turn to see the ice-cold cut of my dad's gaze, his lips tight.
Doctor Shepherd smiles, his eyes crinkling in the corners. His palms are flat on the dark wood of his desk, as he shrugs away my apparent indifference. The room is basic, with a few comfortable chairs for patients, a cabinet lined with textbooks, photos of treated patients, and a few drawings. I remember scribbling away pictures for him when I was a child, when I saw him as regularly as my family. What remains of his hair is ice-white. He has been my doctor for over a decade. I recall when his hair was a warm red. That's how long this man has been trying and failing to save my life. I'm not ungrateful, but my dads' reverence is his own.
I move away from the window, my movements practiced, my smile too. I walk over and sink into the faux-leather chair next to my dad. He watches me in case my demeanour slips, his face stoic. I know my role. I know what's expected of me in this space.
"Apologies, Doctor Shepherd, but can you repeat that?" Dad grumbles, making his displeasure at me clear. Doctor Shepherd nods, his face still warm and gentle.
"It was a minor chest infection and Calla appears well. The test results don't hint at anything that worries me."
Dad nods and looks at me, there's the smallest twitch on his lips. A smile, a subtle crack in his stiff armour.
"That's good news."
Doctor Shepherd ignores Dad's response and glances at me.
"And how do you feel, Calla?"
"I feel fine, much better."
That's not entirely true. The infection that had me spending the last few weeks in bed, exhausted and weak had not left my body completely. I still felt tired, and my limbs were a little fragile. But I'd felt worse, so much worse and complaining feels pointless. Even more so in the face of this morning's revelations.
"That's good. And the pump is still doing its job, and of course, a heart may become available at any moment..." His words fade away, and I let them drift. I don't need to hear more, and neither does Dad, really. We know where we are, we all know it with painful clarity. "Just last week I heard of surgery on a man who'd been living on the list for nearly three years waiting for a heart. The pump is doing what we need it to. It's doing what your own heart can't while we wait for your new one." He smiles kindly, his words full of warmth and hope I don't feel.
Even Dad seems to relax. Bathing in the soothing waters of Doctor Shepherd's optimism. But I don't. I can't see the world that way anymore. I see the chasms I'll fall in, the horrors lurking around the corner. I see the infections that take me off the list for months, the faulty wires that could stop the LVAD device from working. I think of all the people who have waited like me for a miracle that never came.
I'm thinking of the person who has to die, so I can live. And no amount of drugs or electrical cables and batteries can keep the blackened husk in my chest beating indefinitely.
🖤🖤🖤
The drive home is quiet. It always is. Dad clutches at the steering wheel so hard it looks like it could snap in his large hands, his biceps twitching with tension. The radio plays faintly in the background, a cheerful pop song that seems out of tune with the atmosphere in the car. I stare out at the city as we leave the centre for the Village. Drab concrete makes way to honey-hued houses and iron-gated driveways. To streets lined with trees and dotted with grassy parks and wooden benches.
I feel numb. Not because I feel nothing but the opposite - I feel too much. Over the years, the hope and positivity have shifted to sadness and grief before settling in my bones as anger and apathy. My feelings have grown to such epic proportions as the drugs failed, the surgeries failed, and sickness robbed my heart of any remaining strength. I think my soul has grown as rotten as my heart.
I have felt so much, for so long; I no longer feel anything at all.
The radio switches to the hourly news update, and Damien's death is the headline. This isn't a local news station, but national. Damien's murder has bled out of our home, our city, and into the world. Dad's jaw clenches and he reaches down to turn off the station.
"No. I want to hear it." I reach up to the small screen and turn up the volume.
"Calla... I don't think that..."
"MP David Steele's seventeen-year-old son was brutally murdered last night in a vicious attack. Chief Constable for Bristol police, Alexander Pierce has released this statement."
I twist, turning to look at Dad, but his eyes are fixed on the road.
"Damien was a much loved, popular member of the community and his death has devastated his family and friends. This was a brutal attack, and we will not stop until the killer is brought to justice. We are currently following a promising lead, and are confident Damien's attacker will be apprehended and brought to justice shortly."
"David Steele spoke to journalists briefly this morning, asking for the press to respect his family's privacy and to confirm he will be releasing a statement later in the next few days and..."
Dad switches off the radio using the controls on the wheel and I tut, folding my arms across my chest. I stare at him until he finally looks down at me.
"I think you heard enough last night. You need to focus on getting well."
"Please. Tell me what's going on. Damien was my friend, too." That's not entirely true. I cared for Damien, and for a long enough time, he was the face I saw when I closed my eyes. But we were never friends. And he never cared much for me. Not like he did Alice.
Dad is silent for a long time, and we pull into the driveway of our house, the electric gates shutting behind us with a twang of metal. Our golden house, like all the others on the street, gleams in the midday sun. I expect Dad to get out of the car, and ignore my question, but he leans back deeper in his seat. Turns to look at me.
People always say I look like Dad. Same hair so dark it's nearly black. Skin pale, even for a sick girl who's spent more days in hospital than outside playing. Eyes the same icy shade of blue. But it's the intensity that connects us - people fear my dad. And if I'd let them, they'd fear me too. He twists in his seat, his eyes softening when they rest on me.
"We don't know a lot at this stage. But we will soon enough. I don't want you to worry about this. We're going to make an arrest real soon, we need to focus on supporting your sister."
"But... if you know who did it, you must know why they did it?"
"Not yet... but I will. We know where Damien died. We know the person who threatened his life, a person who made good on that threat. Everything about Damien's death leads us right back to..." He raises an eyebrow at me, his lips tightening before he speaks again. "There are a lot of bad people in the Heights, Calla. And this Owen Kincaid is one of them. People won't be able to hide in the shadows, not when we drag Kincaid out into the light."
I lean back, thinking hard. There is something in Dad's words that seems wrong, something feverish in his eyes that makes my stomach churn. I push the feeling down, but it crawls back up like claws are tracing their way up my spine. I'm scared. I'm scared for Owen.
There are two types of truth. There's truth based on instinct, based on experience, based on humans being mostly creatures of predictability and lacking in imagination. When a woman is killed in her home, it doesn't take a genius to work out the murderer is most likely the husband who's known to abuse her. But these aren't the truths Dad is usually interested in - it isn't knowing who the killer is that's important, it's having the evidence to prove it. You don't lead by emotion; you follow the evidence. But there is plenty of emotion in Dad's eyes right now. And I can't fathom what it's doing there.
"But..."
"Calla..." Dad growls. "I think that's enough. You need to get inside. And I need to check in on your sister."
Dad gets out of the car, slamming the door behind him. I sit there for a moment, his words sinking in as I watch him go. Owen's message said he hadn't done this, and Owen wasn't a liar. I wanted to believe the worst of him. It was easier that way. And whatever he'd got involved in, whatever he might have done, I knew that much. He didn't lie.
If what he'd told me was true and he wasn't the killer, then the person who'd taken Damien's life was still out there, safely hidden in the shadow cast by Owen, as all eyes were fixed on him.
A/N - Wow, this chapter took me ages! It's so hard to know what to reveal and what to keep back, hoping I get the balance right but it was tough in this chapter. Chapter three gives away a bit more backstory on Calla and Owen, but these first two are me trying to show Calla's world and ramp up the tension.
Is it working? Are you curious to know more?