Alexander

I confirm first thing Monday morning that the boys will be changing schools. Brenda draws up the letters I dictate to her, and I sign them off with a shaky hand before she faxes them through to their headmaster.

I send Claire an email telling her it’s done, and also telling her the boys are free to attend Terry’s shitty kids’ club on a Sunday afternoon.

My whole world is spinning on its fucking axis.

My mouth is parched no matter how many Americanos Brenda brings me from the coffee shop next door.

I’m listless in my client meetings and I’m clumsy with the board report amendments that need my bastard input.

I hate how out of control I feel. I hate the wriggling worm of vulnerability in my gut.

I hate how painful it feels to find my heart still beating.

I’m staring into the abyss today, but whereas I normally rely on Brutus to be my sobering factor, I now have another anchor in the storm.

The insanity with Amy is the only thing keeping me actually sane.

The Puppet Master title the industry slapped on my head over a decade ago suits me well, but not as well as it did, and not anywhere near as well as it suits my slimy fucking father.

His grubby fingers are in everything, twisting everything.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise when he blasts his way into my office before lunch. It shouldn’t come as a surprise when he slaps a copy of the paperwork Brenda faxed across to the school onto my desk.

“What the fucking hell is this, boy? Have you lost your fucking mind?!”

It takes all of my restraint not to reply in the affirmative.

“The boys are changing schools,” I say. “I’ve discussed it with Claire, I’ve discussed it with them.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” His eyes are angry and wired. Just as they were all those years ago in the public toilets.

Just as they’ve been so many times since, when I haven’t played into his filthy fucking hands at every opportunity.

“It’s none of your cunting business, old man,” I tell him.

“Oh, but it fucking is,” he hisses. “Those boys are next in line to the family business. My fucking business.”

I laugh in his face.

And there, amongst the laughter, is the simple truth I’ve been avoiding my whole fucking life.

The truth of the peace I’ve granted my boys, even though they don’t realise it yet.

I want out.

“You’ll have to find another puppet to train in my stead. Thomas wants to be a footballer, and Matthew… well, Matthew doesn’t have the disposition for this shit. I see him as an artist maybe, or a celebrity chef. Maybe even a flower arranger.”

“Don’t test my fucking patience, boy.” My father’s disgust is actually etched into his features. A lifetime of scowling carved into stone under spiteful eyes. “You’ll withdraw your instruction with immediate effect. I’ll handle Claire and her lunatic educational preferences.”

“I won’t,” I say, “And you certainly won’t be doing fucking anything about Claire.”

The thump of his fist on wood makes my pens rattle. “Be careful, boy. Be very fucking careful.”

I don’t even blink. “We’re done here.”

It’s in my eyes and I know it. I know he sees every single flicker of hatred I have for him, and this shitty fucking business, and the way I’ve lived my seedy fucking life.

“We’re not done,” he seethes. “Not even fucking close.”

“I’m done,” I tell him, and I hate my beating heart. “I’m done with bailing out cunts and crooks.”

“What the–”

“I’m done with shaking hands with addicts, and fraudsters, incompetent fuckwits with more money than sense.”

“Don’t–”

“I’m done with rapists and murderers, I’m done with people hiding behind expensive suits. And I’m fucking done with you.”

“YOU’RE NOT FUCKING DONE!” he roars.

I laugh, because he looks even more unhinged than I feel.

“Oh, but I am,” I say. “I’m going to off my caseload onto Hugh Lister. He’s doing well. A rising star in your delightful organisation. I’m sure he’ll be able to handle it.”

His finger is white when he jabs it in my direction. “You don’t walk away from clients like yours, boy. And you can’t walk away from clients like mine.”

My gut twists.

“I haven’t had anything to do with clients like yours for fucking years.”

“That doesn’t fucking matter,” he says. “You know things. Things that make you a fucking liability if you stop toeing the fucking line.”

“Don’t threaten me.”

My eyes are like steel. His are like stone.

“I couldn’t keep you safe, boy.”

“You wouldn’t try,” I say.

He doesn’t even attempt to deny it.

“What in the name of holy fucking Christ is going on with you?” he asks, and he’s searching. Digging.

I hate the way it makes me shiver.

I force bravado. “I’m thinking I might take on some legal aid cases. Represent the good guys for a change. Who’d have thought?” My laugh comes out twisted.

His pupils are like pinpricks. “Something happened to you, boy. What the fuck is it?”

“Something happened to me a long fucking time ago and you fucking know it. You were there.”

His smile is grotesque. “You liked it, boy. You moaned like a little fucking sissy bitch as you shot your load over that piss-stained wall.”

“Get out of my office, you disgusting old cunt.”

We stand-off. Eye to eye. Scowl to fucking scowl.

Hate.

So much fucking hate.

So much fucking disgust.

He shoves the paperwork in my direction before he steps away. “Retract your fucking statement to the school, boy.”

“Get the fuck out of my office,” I repeat.

He stops in the doorway, and his expression gives me the chills.

“I’m going to find out what in the name of Christ is going on with you, and then I’ll put a fucking end to it. I promise you that.”

Or put an end to me.

A chill rips up my spine.

And it’s there.

It’s always been right there.

The faces of my demons aren’t those of porn stars, or rent boys, or drinking enough whisky to blackout into oblivion.

My demons all look like my fucking father.

And so do fucking I.

I hold my expression for a long minute after my door closes behind him, and then I rip up his fucking paperwork.

* * *

Melissa

I’m nervous.

Of course I’m nervous.

I’m dancing a stupid crazy dance, right on the edge of a cliff, and now I’m pulling Dean along with me.

I only have a short window and I’m well aware of it. I feel the clock counting down to zero on all my stupid lies.

I heard Sonnie downstairs at Alexander’s on Sunday morning. I pretended to be asleep with my heart in my throat, praying to God he didn’t call me down there.

But one day he will.

One day I’ll run out of luck, and no amount of gemstone trivia is going to bail me out.

Dean has his conditions and I’ll keep them.

I’ll hand in my resignation just as soon as my plan reaches its final destination.

And in the meantime I dance the crazy dance.

Mr Henley seems strange on Wednesday evening.

He’s quiet as he takes me. Quiet as he kisses me after.

Quiet as he holds me.

“Are you alright?” I ask in the darkness.

He takes a breath before he answers. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

“Okay,” I say, and squeeze his fingers a little bit tighter.

I wonder if he’s growing tired of me already. I wonder if he’s getting sick of paying so much money to have me here.

It only makes me more determined to see this craziness through.

To be the woman his ex-wife wasn’t.

To be the woman he will fall in love with.

He’s all I want. That’s all I want.

But Mr Henley is quieter still on Friday night at the soup kitchen.

He looks so brooding as he stirs the pot, and he doesn’t smile on the streets, not even once.

I hate it.

I hate feeling so insecure after things were going so well.

I hate not knowing what’s going on with him.

I tell him so in a roundabout way as we take a cab back to his.

“I’m sorry,” I add straight after. “It’s none of my business. I just… care.”

He takes my fingers in his. “You’re better off out of it,” he tells me.

His tone gives me shivers.

“But I want to be in it,” I whisper. “I want to be with you.”

He doesn’t even reply to that.

It only makes me more determined than ever.

I send a confirmation text to Mrs Stanley’s daughter Helen when he’s letting Brutus out for his final poop of the evening, telling her we’ll be on for a few hours of babysitting tomorrow night.

I hate the niggle in my belly. I hate the thought of leaving Joe with a stranger, even though she’s not one.

But it’ll just be for one night, and he knows Helen. He knew her before…

She’ll be fine, and he’ll be asleep anyway. He’s good at sleeping right through.

Mr Henley holds me tighter than ever as I drift off to sleep tonight, and I don’t understand it. I don’t understand any of it.

I wish I could tell him that I love him. That I’m right by his side, whatever he’s facing, whatever this… is…

But not yet.

Soon. But not yet.