Alexander

She left her cash on the dresser. I didn’t notice until too late.

That cunt Claude will have some fucking questions to answer, and I’ll get her all she’s owed.

I feel beaten as I head down to the reception and hand over my key card.

I feel defeated as I call a cab of my own and wait outside.

I wanted answers and I got them, but they don’t make me feel any better.

Neither does her apology.

Hope. Such a fragile thing. Such a ridiculous thing.

I’d enjoyed it while it lasted.

Hope teased me with a glimpse of another life, where I could love someone and they could love me back. A life where I wouldn’t have to be alone.

I hate the thought of starting over without her.

I hate the thought of running away from my shitty life with nobody to run for.

I climb into the back of the cab and give the driver my address.

And then I change my mind.

I give him hers instead.

Melissa Martin knows everything about me, and I still know virtually fuck all about her.

She crawled inside my mind and died there, and I don’t even know her middle name.

It’s still there, the anger. Still bubbling under the surface.

I still feel violated.

I don’t know what food’s inside her fridge, or which music she has on her playlist. I don’t know what colour her bedroom is, or whether she has any pets.

I don’t know if she takes a bath or a shower in the morning.

I don’t know what she looked like on her old school photos.

She knows fucking everything about me, and that smarts.

It’s like an itch I can’t get fucking shot of, this insane desire to even the score.

I almost change my mind as the cab pulls up outside her block.

It’s a shithole. This whole area is a shithole.

The entrance door is covered in graffiti and the stairwell stinks of piss. I don’t touch the handrail as I make my way up to her floor. My hands are in my pockets as I scope out where her flat is.

It’s in a corner at the back of the top floor, number 21.

I close my eyes as I knock, and it’s not really a knock at all, it’s a deafening thump. A whole fucking string of them.

It’s Dean who answers. His eyes widen in horror as he clocks it’s me.

I’m past him in a heartbeat, my eyes wild as they feast on everything in that place.

“Where is she?” I snap, and he heads on through the living room. He taps on a door at the far end and she looks tiny and broken as she steps out. Her cheeks are blotchy and tear-streaked and her hair is a mess.

Her eyes well up afresh as she sees me, and her bottom lip trembles. “Alexander?” she says as she dashes over. “What are you doing here?”

Dean’s shoulder shunts mine as he passes. He takes a coat from the hook. “Don’t fucking hurt her,” he tells me.

I have no intention of fucking hurting her.

“I’ll be back in an hour,” he tells Melissa, and she nods.

I wait until the door closes behind him.

And then I walk right on past her.

I start in her kitchen. I read all the little notes on her fucking pinboard. I flick through the cookbooks and tear through all the drawers.

“What are you doing?” she asks, but makes no attempt to stop me.

“You saw fucking everything of mine,” I snap. “You snooped in fucking everything. I’m showing you how it fucking feels to have your home invaded.”

I know I’m a fucking lunatic, but I don’t care.

There’s barely anything in her fridge. Some milk, and ham and fresh vegetables. A half-used block of cheese.

I march through to the living room when I’m done in the kitchen. I tear through the display cabinet, digging through all the letters in the top drawer.

I flick through family photos and Melissa points out her mum and dad, like it needed saying.

I look under the sofa and under the TV. I flick through her brother’s DVDs and her mum’s old exercise videos.

I learn nothing other than she’s a girl living in her parents’ wake. Picking up the pieces of a shattered life.

“Doesn’t feel so great when you’re not the one doing the fucking snooping, does it?” I snap, but she doesn’t say a word.

She doesn’t have many beauty products in the bathroom, just basic shampoo and conditioner and a kid’s bubble bath.

She uses sanitary towels not tampons, and her toothbrush is pink.

“Which is your bedroom?” I ask and she points to the door at the end of the hallway. “Tell me to leave,” I say, “or I’m going to tear your fucking room apart.”

“Never,” she says. “I’ll never tell you to leave. I can’t even believe you’re here.”

“Suit yourself,” I snap, and step on in.

* * *

Melissa

I can’t believe he’s really here.

I don’t even dare to hope that this isn’t over.

But he’s here. He’s here.

He’s angry, and wound tight, and his eyes are wild and dark, but he’s here.

I follow him into my bedroom and tell him to go ahead. I tell him to do whatever he wants. I’m not interested in secrets. I’d cut open my soul if I could, just to show him what’s inside.

He stares at the old Debating Society certificates on my wall. He picks up the framed family photos on my dresser.

He smells my old stuffed teddy bear and opens my wardrobe and tears through my clothes. There isn’t much in there, it doesn’t take long.

It doesn’t take him long to rummage through my makeup box, either.

The drawers under my desk are filled with old college books, he flicks through the legal ones and he swallows. “This really was your dream?”

I nod. It’s all I can do.

And then he sees it, my battered old chest of drawers on the far side of my bed. The one with all my crystals laid out on top, my Kings and Castles CD still open by the player.

“You didn’t show me these,” he says as he picks up a piece of bloodstone.

“I didn’t have them then,” I say, and I’m not lying. These additions were all for me.

He holds up the CD case. “Research?”

I shake my head. “I only bought that last week, I wanted the physical copy.”

“Fucking hell, Lissa,” he snaps. “You changed your whole fucking life for me.”

I shake my head. “Only at the beginning. I thought I was playing…” My smile hurts. “It’s funny how pretending to be someone else can help you find out who you really are.”

He stares at me. “You think this is who you really are now? Amy pissing Randall?”

I shake my head. “I think she’s just the start. I was nothing after they died. I was nobody. Being Amy Randall was the best thing in the world.”

It really was. Being her was everything I ever dreamed it would be. Loving him was everything I ever dreamed it would be.

And more.

So much more.

“Knowing Amy Randall was the best thing in the world,” he says.

He takes a seat on my bed and rubs his temples. “I should go.”

“Please don’t.”

His eyes burn into mine but I don’t look away. I’ll never look away.

“Then you’d better put the kettle on,” he says.

* * *

Alexander

Her kitchen is cramped. She nudges me with her hip as she reaches for a clean mug, and I wonder how they ever fit three people in this place.

I shouldn’t be here.

My threats to Claude will be working their way back to my father if they haven’t reached him already.

I have no interest in taking them back, which means my window of escape is limited.

He’ll be gunning for me, and so will his associates.

I shouldn’t be here, I should be planning my exit, packing up the things I want to take with me.

But I still don’t want to leave her. Not even after everything she’s done.

“I’ll be leaving London tomorrow night,” I tell her. “Any longer and the chances I’ll make it out reduce dramatically.”

She tries to hide her fear as she stirs my coffee. It’s instant crap and it tastes bitter as shit, but I don’t care.

“You think they’ll come after you?” she whispers.

“I know they’ll come after me. I’m far too much of a liability.”

“So what then? You keep running?”

I shake my head. “A few months under the radar and they’ll realise I’ve no interest in blowing their cover. I’ll slip down their target list.”

“You’re sure?”

No. I’m not sure.

I’ve become far too fond of this hope novelty recently.

“Would you still have come with me?” I ask her.

“Knowing what you’re running from?”

I nod.

Her eyes hide nothing from me. “Yes,” she says. “So long as Joseph was safe.”

Joseph.

I had no idea he’d even existed. No idea she was holding so much together. A baby, a full-time job, moonlighting with me three times a week. The soup kitchen.

All of that with a side helping of crushing grief.

At eighteen years old.

She’s barely even an adult, and yet she’s one of the most mature women I’ve ever met.

Figures, of course. That’s what responsibility does to you.

Melissa Martin impresses me. Learning that comes as a surprise.

Melissa Martin is made of steel. She must be to live through what she’s lived through.

I remember her polishing that boardroom table all those weeks ago. I remember how impressed I’d been with her determination. With her grit. Her work ethic.

I remember how transfixed I was by her quiet apology. The humbleness in her stance.

I remember how touched I was by her kindness in my house. Her generosity with her cupcake gift for me.

The orchids.

The fact she cared.

I thought I’d fallen in love with Amy Randall, but I’d only paid for Amy Randall because I was so hung up on Melissa Martin, even though she was faceless, even though she ran from me when I called.

“You didn’t need to be Amy,” I tell her. “I already wanted Melissa.”

I know my words pain her. She flinches as I say them. “Please don’t,” she whispers. “It hurts enough already. I can’t bear to think I lost it all in vain.”

But she hasn’t.

She hasn’t lost it.

As much as I want to hate her, I can’t.

As much as I want to turn my back and leave her here, I can’t.

I can’t run without her.

I don’t want to run without her.

If my father’s associates don’t put an end to me, I’ll put an end to myself.

Today, or tomorrow, or further down the line when Brutus has long breathed his last breath.

When the boys are all grown up and don’t even call anymore.

When there is only me.

She made me feel alive again, without her I’ll want to die again. It’s only a matter of time.

I’m about to say it when a cry sounds through the wall.

It jars my senses, just as it did all those years ago when my boys were so young.

“Shit,” she says. “Joseph. He has nightmares sometimes.”

“Go,” I say, but she’s already on her way.

I wander through her living room as the cries continue. I hear her singing and she has such a beautiful voice. Such a sad voice.

I wait ten minutes and the kid’s cries are still fraught.

Fifteen minutes go by and I can’t hold back. It’s instinct.

Parental instinct.

The strength of it takes me aback.

I knock on the door so gently. “Melissa?”

“Come in,” she says over his sobs.

I push the door open slowly, and there she is, rocking so gently with that sweet little thing in her arms. He looks like her. Even with his face all crumpled with tears, he looks like her.

His little nightlight glows on the nightstand, and this must have been her parents’ room. Their bed is still made up neatly. A piece of floral fabric still pokes from the wardrobe doors.

It must break her heart every day to come in here.

I know, because my boys’ bedrooms broke mine, even though I still saw them every Sunday.

I had to take them apart in the end. They’re magnolia now. Empty.

“Matthew used to get night terrors,” I tell her. “I used to point out the stars. He liked that.”

She smiles. “You did?”

I nod.

“I think he still dreams of them,” she tells me. “I do, too. It hurts so bad when I wake up and find they’re not there.”

She looks so tired. She looks fragile and willowy and lost.

I hold out my arms. “Maybe I could try?” I offer, and she bounces him on her hip before she hands him over.

“This is Alexander,” she whispers. “He’s very kind. He’s going to show you the stars. He showed me them, too.”

That little boy’s eyes are so wide as they stare into mine. My heart is thumping as I take him.

“Hi, Joseph,” I say. “I’m Alex.”

“Alex?” Melissa whispers and I nod. “I like Alex.”

So do I.

I take that little boy through to the living room and pull back the curtains. The city glows orange, but you can just about see them, the little pinpricks of white in the sky.

He forgets to cry as I point them out. His little hand grabs my finger as I gesture to the few constellations I can see.

“Stars,” I say. “They’re magic.”

I’m aware Lissa is at my back. I feel her eyes.

“Can you count them?” I ask, and he laughs at me. His laugh is the sweetest sound.

“You’re good with him,” Lissa whispers.

The triumph thrills me.

“I’ve had a lot of practice.”

“More than me,” she says. “I’m still learning.”

She’s doing a great job and I tell her so.

“Dean does most of it,” she says, and I remember he still lives here. I remember he’s coming back soon. “Time for bed now,” I say to Joseph, and he’s happy to go back to Lissa when she takes him.

I watch from the doorway as she settles him back down and sets his twinkle mobile playing.

She eases the door closed when he’s asleep.

“Thanks,” she says. “Sometimes it takes hours.”

I don’t have hours.

I don’t even have minutes.

Every breath takes me closer to disaster.

So I say it. I have to.

“Come with me,” I say. “Both of you.”

Her eyes fill with tears. “But I can’t… you said you don’t even know me, and you don’t know Joe, and what about Dean? Dean’s been so good to us, and he has nobody. His parents are assholes.”

I know that feeling.

“Then I guess we get to know each other, Lissa. You, me, Joseph. Dean, too. We’ll all go. Fresh start.”

She shakes her head, and it’s not a refusal it’s disbelief. She crumples to the floor and I head down there with her, and it feels so nice to be back in her arms.

“It’ll be scary for the first few months,” I say. “We may need to keep moving.”

“I don’t care,” she says. “We’ll go wherever you go, all of us.”

I hear the key in the front door, and kiss Lissa’s forehead before Dean comes through.

“I need to pack,” I say. “You do, too. Come over this afternoon when you’re ready. Pack as light as you can. We’ll leave from mine.”

She nods. “We’ll be there.”

And I know she will be.

I’ll be waiting.