Jude
The first thing I see when I walk into the bakery is Patrick’s back, facing away from me. He looks huge, like a man other men ought to be scared of. Luckily, I’m not other men. I take in the rest only briefly. The scared kids, the old man, Emily’s boss backed away at the opposite end of the store, peeking around from the backroom. I see the shattered counter and I see Emily. Emily most of all.
I can see what Mickey meant when he said she’s different. She looks different, though the change is difficult to pinpoint exactly. It’s like there’s a new confidence in her which has infused her bones. She stands straighter and less fear touches her features. Her eyes, though still set within two black bits, are once again saucer-like, big and green. Her gaze flits past Patrick, sees me, and then returns to Patrick.
“I’m not the disgrace,” she says, drawing her words out.
Smart, I think, as I creep across the bakery. Patrick may be a big bastard, but he’s also a poorly-trained bastard with little experience of real fighting, real murder. Any trained hitman would hear me as I creep across the bakery, but this vending-machine fuck is too concerned with bullying his sister.
“You’ve always been the disgrace,” Emily goes on, and the steel in her voice fills me with pride. She really has changed. Damn, I love this woman. I loved who she was and I love who she’s become, and I reckon I’ll love her for the rest of my life. “You talk a lot about how I need you, you’re a good brother, you’re a good man. But the truth is you’ve never been any of those things. You’ve always just been a man who hit his little sister. That’s it, Patrick. That’s all you ever were.”
“No,” he mutters in disbelief.
I take another step, another, until I am almost close enough to lunge.
“Yes,” Emily spits. “You never considered my feelings. You never even treated me like a person. My whole life, you’ve treated me like less than a person. You’ve treated me like I’m just some inconvenience that has to be dealt with. When did you ever think about my feelings? When did you ever stop to consider how I felt? The truth is, Patrick, that you’re the biggest disgrace I’ve ever met. And I hate you.” She pauses, letting out a long breath as though her words are a shock even to her. “I. Hate. You.”
Patrick raises his fist, pulling it back, right into the path of my hand.
I grab his fist, wrench it back, and hurl him across the room. He lets out a yelp and goes flying into a table, landing on his ass. I see red, rushing at him, my fists clenched so hard my palms punish me for it. He struggles to his feet just in time for my fist to smash into his jaw.
“Ah!” he grunts, stumbling again.
I hit him, again, again, but I lose my cool and losing your cool is never a good idea. Whilst I unleash madly on him, he rolls aside and kicks me in the back of the leg. I stumble, clutching onto the wall, and he jumps to his feet. “No!” Emily cries, as Patrick brings his fist around in a wide, powerful swing. I throw myself to the ground, just in time to miss the main bulk of the punch, but his knuckles graze my chin, sending my head back with such force that the back of my head almost hits my shoulder blades. Pain lances from my neck down my body.
I roll over, struggling to my feet. I’m half-standing when Patrick kicks him swiftly in the gut. I keel over, coughing. He makes to kick me again. I leap back, out of the way, and jab him twice in the nose. He takes the punches easily, as though being slapped by a child. I remind myself that he’s a huge brick shithouse of a man. Have to hit harder.
I throw myself at him, trying like hell to keep my killer’s calm, but it’s damn hard when I know this is the man who gave Emily those black eyes. It’s damn hard when I know this is the bastard who’s been beating on his sister his entire life. He dances back, moving quick for such a big bag of piss, out of range of my punches. I uppercut left; he steps right. I uppercut right; he steps left.
He retaliates with a barrage of powerful but clumsy swings, roaring like a madman. I dodge them easily, thinking all the while that I have to beat this man more than I’ve ever had to beat anybody before. If he wins, he’ll hurt Emily. He backs me all the way to the broken counter. Wind touches my face as I narrowly dodge a strike that would’ve 1eveled me out, maybe killed me. But his chest is heaving, I see. With killer’s eyes I evaluate his movements, just as I did back in the fighting pit before all this madness started. It seems like a lifetime ago, a voice mutters in the back of my mind.
He bows his head and charges at me. Behind me, Emily gasps.
I force myself to remain calm. All the jobs I’ve done, all the men I’ve killed, all the fights I’ve been in suddenly accumulate their weight upon me. Anger leaves me. In its place comes a hard-earned calm, the kind of calm few men can muster whilst being attacked.
He charges—and I step aside and hook him so hard across the face that he flies across the room, face smashing into the wall.
Blood smears down the wallpaper, turning it red, and he crumples onto the floor.
I watch him for a few seconds, waiting to see if he’ll stand up, but he’s out cold.
I turn to Emily.
She walks up to me, glancing at Patrick, and then throws her arms around me. I pull her close, hugging her tightly to me, desperate for the feel of her. She grips my shoulders, kissing me over and over on the neck, the cheek, the chin—wherever her kisses land. She leans back in the embrace, a smile on her lips. I can’t help myself. I lean forward and kiss her perfect lips. Despite it all, we moan, pushing into each other. Her body feels tight against mine, tight and strong. Perfect.
“I love you,” she breathes, breaking off the kiss. “Have I told you that yet, Jude? I love you.”
“I love you, too,” I say, the words sounding natural, like I’ve been waiting a long time to speak them. “I love you so damn much.”
We watch each other for a long time, hands roaming over each other’s bodies.
“Now what?” she asks, with a cheeky smile. I read it in her face, my girlfriend’s face. She wants me; I want her.
“Now we go home,” I say, smoothing my hand through her hair. “You’re changed, Emily. You seem different.”
“Different good?” she says, with a cock of the head that’s sexy as hell.
“Different good,” I confirm. “Different damn good.”
“But we should probably call someone first, right?” she asks. “Like the police or something.”
The police, I think, with a chill. The police, for obvious reasons, have never been a friend of mine. But she’s right. Something needs to be done with Patrick, and judging by the way Emily glances at him—an old vestige of concern in her eyes—I’m guessing she doesn’t want him dead.
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess so.”
We let go of each other and I reach into my pocket for my cell. I’ve dialed 91 when Emily lets out a shriek. I spin. Emily’s backed against the wall.
Patrick’s on his feet.
With a gun.
Pointed at her.
He wipes blood from his face with his free hand and swivels the gun between us, now aiming it at me, now at Emily.
“You stupid fucks,” he snarls. “You stupid goddamn fucks. Did you really think you could get away with this? Are you really that fucking stupid? Do you know who I am? Do you have any idea who I am?”
“A smalltime, wannabe hard man,” I say, stepping forward. My only mission is to make him point the gun at me, and not Emily. That’s all that matters now. “You’re a nobody, Patrick. A waste of breath. A piece of shit.”
“I’m warning you,” Patrick says, eyes glassy and red. “I’m warning you, man.”
I walk right up to him, so close that the barrel of the gun presses cold and hard against my forehead. I hear Emily let out a gasp, but that seems faraway. The only thing that’s real is the icy barrel pressed against my skin, promising death, but as long as it’s death for me and not for Emily, I can handle that.
“Emily, get out,” I mutter through clenched teeth.
“No,” she says. “I’m not leaving you.”
“Get out,” I repeat. “Just get the fuck out of here. Go and be happy somewhere far away.”
“She’s not going anywhere,” Patrick grunts. His finger strokes the trigger longingly. His lips twist into a sick grin. “I’m in charge now. Do you understand? Me. Emily’s had a nice few weeks, sure. She’s had her chance to play at being the big girl. But do you want to know the truth, you mob fuck? She’ll always be mine. Even if she did somehow get away from me, do you really think she’d stop being mine? She’s my property, dumbass. She’s my property!”
“If you shoot me,” I say, my voice oddly calm, “you’ll go to prison.”
“I don’t see any cameras in this place,” Patrick retorts. “What if I shoot every bastard in this place? What then, eh?”
“Patrick.” Emily’s voice is soft, kind. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her step forward. “Patrick, you’re right,” she goes on, in that same syrupy tone. It’s obvious to me she’s acting, but it doesn’t seem so obvious to Patrick, whose eyes flicker to her with fresh emotion.
“Yes?”
“You’re right. Of course you’re right. You’re in charge. You’re the boss. Everybody knows that. We’re just being silly, thinking we can get around you. Ha!” The laugh is so forced I can hardly believe my eyes when Patrick’s lips twitch and real, genuine relief enters his expression. And then it hits me. Patrick has never seen Emily as a person, not really; men like him never do. He has never stopped to consider that what she shows him might not be the complete truth. He has never stopped to consider that her face and her heart might be singing different tunes.
“You don’t hate me?” he asks in a soft voice.
“Hate you?” Emily sounds shocked. “I could never hate you. You’re my big brother.”
This is the moment, I think, watching his grip on the gun like a wolf watches a deer’s step, checking for a weakness, when their lives collide. Patrick has spent his life assuming that whatever Emily showed him was the truth about how she actually felt. Emily has spent her life hiding her true feelings and showing him only what he wanted to see. Maybe it made him feel damn good; now it’s going to be the fucker’s downfall.
“Thank you,” he says, and the sincere gratitude in his voice causes sick to rise in my throat. “That’s all I wanted to—”
His grip loosens. I jump.
Everything happens fast, events whirring ahead at treble speed.
I grab the barrel of the gun, trying to wrench it from his grip. His distraction lasts just long enough for me to aim it away from my face. A gunshot goes off, smashing into the wall. Everybody screams, the ignored patrons, Emily, even Patrick. But I keep my calm. I keep the barrel of the gun pointed away. He fires again, again. Plaster crumbles from the ceiling like snowflakes.
Then he shoves me. I stumble. Grab the gun.
Another gunshot goes off.
Patrick lets out a grunt and falls as though boneless to the ground, clutching his leg.
Blood seeps between his fingers.
Emily steps forward, holding onto my arm and looking down at her brother. His eyelids flutter, but I’ve seen countless men shot and I know he’s going to live.
I kneel down and take the gun from his hand, press it against his head just as he pressed it against mine. Anger burns in me.
“No,” Emily says, touching my shoulder. “It’s done, Jude. It’s over.”
For a second, I think about blowing his brains out anyway. But then I remember Moira’s words, I remember Mickey telling me he didn’t need to die, and most of all I remember that, whilst Emily is overcoming her abuse, killing Patrick may not make it any easier. Maybe it’ll make it worse; maybe she’ll feel guilty. She’s stronger, different—that’s obvious—but that doesn’t mean she’s one-hundred percent new. After everything, she’s still Emily. With a sigh, I take the clip out of the gun, eject the round in the chamber, and lay the empty piece of metal on the floor next to him.
“Let’s go,” I say, rising to my feet.
Emily touches my face, leans in, kisses me. “I think that’s a good idea.”