Talkin' the Talk, page 16
She climbed into the cab, locked the door and started the engine with shaking hands. She didn’t think about where she was going, she just drove to Hank’s house as fast as she could, skidding to a halt in front and immediately reaching for her phone when she saw there were no lights on inside.
Hank answered on the second ring. The sound of music and loud voices in the background told her he was probably still at the bar. “Yeah? What’s up?”
“I need you to come home now.” Sophie’s voice shook with tears as she spoke. “Like right now.”
“What? Why? Are you alright?”
“No.”
“Where are you?”
“Your place.”
“What’s happened?”
“H-how soon can you be here?”
“Ten, fifteen minutes. What’s going on?”
Sophie looked around her. There was no sign that Beau had followed her.
“Sophie? What’s goin’ on?”
Her thoughts were a frantic buzz. What if Hank heard the whole thing and didn’t believe her? What if Beau told him about seeing her and Ian at the cabin? Or worse, what if Hank lost his temper? She couldn’t handle another angry man right now. Tomorrow, she could handle this tomorrow. Tomorrow she’d work out how to tell Candy, how to tell Hank, how to make this all go away. But she would lock herself inside Hank’s place tonight. He had the .22 rifle in his gun safe. She could keep that by the couch . . .
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Hold it. What’s it?”
“Can I stay at your place tonight?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Thanks, Hank. Love you.”
27
It was close to midnight when Ian returned to the caravan park. As he pulled through the gates, he felt everything inside him narrow down to one purpose. His breath slowed, his heartbeat becoming a steady thud in his chest as the mist-shrouded car beams illuminated the men already waiting in front of his father’s caravan. Their cigarettes glowed red in the night, and the caravans surrounding them were dull shapes, dimly illuminated by the slivers of yellow light that crept around curtains and came from the nearby toilet block. At the far side of the camp, walled off by some makeshift corrugated iron fencing, someone had set up three drum fires and a spotlight mounted on a rickety pole. That’s where the fight would be held.
A cold wind whipped down from the Highlands, bringing with it the scent of snow even at this time of year. Ian’s mother had always loved that smell. Even the lightest snowfall could put her in a good mood for days. No matter how cold they were, or how drunk his father got, Ian’s mum always found reason to smile when it snowed.
Ian was doing anything but smiling now, feeling the wind cut through his black hoodie and jeans. At least it was keeping him sharp.
He’d managed to get five hours sleep this afternoon, more than he used to get a night while at The London Voice. He’d used the rest of the time to keep an eye on Fairclough. The idiot broadcasted his every move on social media, and Ian knew exactly which hotel he was staying in tonight after the fool had tweeted about the poor quality of its towels. It had been more than enough information for Ian to make arrangements with one of his cousins to delay him for at least twenty-four hours. By the time Ace Fairclough made his appearance, there’d be no front-page story to find. Not if Ian could help it.
He climbed out of the car and was immediately met by his cousin Del Boy, a once brawny lad who’d now largely gone to fat, his pale brown hair thinning over a pudgy, wind-chapped face. Del Boy had gotten his name because of his father’s love of an old British TV show, Only Fools and Horses.
“Ian?”
“Del Boy.” Ian shook Del Boy’s hand, and the two of them walked towards the waiting crowd of men. As usual, the women were out of sight—they’d watch from their caravans. “Who am I fighting?” he asked, scanning the patch of muddy turf beneath the spotlight for anything that could trip him later.
“Dylan O’Cready. He’s a bolshy big bastard, bad bit o’ work, Ian. Your old man’s paying him twenty percent if he bests you. You heard of him?”
Ian’s mouth curved in a cold smile. “Yeah, I remember him. He married the O’Malley girl.”
“Yeah.”
Dylan O’Cready was created in Ian’s old man’s image: a wife-beater and a bastard to the core. Ian remembered catching sight of Dylan’s wife a week after their wedding, and she’d been in a bad way. There’d been nothing he could do without making it worse for her at the time—there was a strong code against interfering in another man’s marriage—but he’d told his mum so she could help in whatever way she could.
“There you are, you yellow bastard. We thought you weren’t going to turn up,” his old man roared.
One man slapped Ian on the back, and a couple winked at him. They had the smell of booze on their breath, but they were sharp. A lot of money had changed hands this evening, and any resentment they had over Ian leaving years ago was momentarily forgone in favor of winning some cash.
“I’m here.” Ian looked around. “Where’s your champion, old man?” he asked, injecting enough sneer into his tone to spike his father’s temper. A man just as tall and wide as Ian stepped to the front. Dylan O’Cready was still as ugly as Ian remembered, looking like a cross between a Cro-Magnon and the arse end of an elephant. He was already stripped down to a white vest and a pair of jeans, showing off brawny arms.
“I’m your champion.” The man’s voice was raspy, like he’d taken one too many hits to the throat. This kind of grandstanding was as much a part of a bare-knuckle match as the physical violence. “I’m here because you’re not the son you should’ve been. From what I hear, your mother was a whore who gave it to anyone. She was lucky your dad was a forgiving man, because I wouldn’t’ve been. I would’ve showed her—”
Ian turned to Del Boy. “Fair fight?”
“Aye.”
“You’re a witness to what he said?”
Del Boy nodded solemnly. “Aye.”
“Then it’s starting now.” Ian bridged the distance between himself and O’Cready, wrenching the man into a headlock and dragging him under the spotlight.
Ian tuned out everything around him: the stink of O’Cready’s sweat, the sludge of the damp ground at their feet and the jeers of the crowd, which were dulled by the roaring in his ears. Distantly, he was aware that his father’s voice was the loudest, cracking as he shrieked at O’Cready to defend himself.
A white-haired, bandy-legged man ran after them. “Now boys, not yet. I haven’t said. Step back, Ian, step back. Step back, will ye!”
Ian let O’Cready go, pulling his hoodie and undershirt off with one hand and throwing them to the side before holding his fists up. “I’m ready. You ready, O’Cready?”
The other man, who’d had enough time to recover his composure, matched Ian’s stance, his sneer showing a line of crooked teeth. “I’m ready. Come at me, you shifty cunt, and I won’t be caught by surprise again. Or are you too much of a coward? Need some help? Your Dad told me that you fucked your moth—”
“Now, Bill?” Ian demanded the referee, a man he’d known and respected since he’d been a wee lad.
“Alright, alright.” The older man looked at O’Cready to check he was ready and then nodded. “Now.”
Ian let out the inner demon lurking below the surface in one fell swoop, his fist connecting with O’Cready’s mouth. He felt the man’s teeth grate his knuckles, blood spurting, but he didn’t let that stop him. The rules of the fight were to keep punching until the other man went down. O’Cready put his fists up again, but he was too dazed, no doubt unused to fighting a man that could match him rather than his defenseless wife. A swift uppercut and a series of short jabs to O’Cready’s ribs had Ian feeling bone cracking, muscle giving.
It had been years since Ian had bare-knuckle boxed, but it wasn’t something he could forget. He’d had years to anticipate this day; any time he felt successful, any time he thought himself past this, he’d wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, knowing his father was out there just waiting to come back and haunt him.
Now he was going to put an end to it.
O’Cready rallied, but Ian only felt the punches to his ribs and jaw in the abstract. His body had reached that sweet state of disconnect where every twitch and movement was focused solely on taking his opponent apart.
He countered with an uppercut to O’Cready’s jaw that sent him sprawling into the crowd of men, spittle flying as half of them screamed at O’Cready to get up, half to stay down, rabid at the notion they’d won or lost their money so easily.
Bill crouched at O’Cready’s side, checking for consciousness, while Ian willed the bastard to get back up, knowing his father would cry foul play and get out of their deal if there wasn’t at least one more round.
Seconds later the other man stumbled to his feet, insisting he was fine. No sooner did O’Cready try and take a swing than Ian leveled a fist to his jaw that sent him back to the ground again, this time down for the count, his face a bloody mess.
Ian stood over O’Cready, fighting disbelief as Bill declared him the winner.
This couldn’t be it.
It had happened too quickly, and far too soon. A lifetime of dread and anticipation had resulted in the shortest fight of his life. Less than five minutes, and he’d won. He barely registered the slaps on his back from the men who’d won money. He didn’t care about all that.
He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead and heard his father screaming at O’Cready to get up. Ian had heard that tone of voice his entire childhood, aimed at his mum, aimed at him, but this time it was different. There was an edge of desperation that signaled his old man knew he was defeated. In that moment, Ian felt a calm settle over him.
It was over.
He could have done this years ago. He could have done this months ago. He could have done it days ago. He could have come here, challenged his father to a fight and ended it at any time, but he hadn’t. He realized that a part of him had still been a scared child, waiting to be backhanded. He’d been scared that all the hard effort he’d put into remaking himself could be undone in an instant.
His father might be alive, but Ian wouldn’t have to look over his shoulder in the future. The men around him would collect their winnings and make sure that Patrick O’Reilley kept his word. Ace Fairclough wouldn’t get his story.
Ian felt something being jammed into his hand and looked down at an envelope Bill was giving him. His money plus the thirty thousand pounds his father had fronted for the fight, all borrowed from the men who were now yelling at O’Cready—all money that had been taken away from their women and children for the sake of a bet.
“You did well, Ian.” Del Boy thumped him on the shoulder, his pudgy features split into a crooked-toothed grin. “You’ve earned us a pretty penny tonight. You’ve done right by us, and we’ll do right by you, by God.”
Ian looked at him and then down at the envelope. “Here, this is for you Del Boy. This is for taking care of that journalist for me like I asked.”
Del Boy gave Ian a wink. “He’s well out’a the way. I got Claire to slip him a drink with a quarter pack of sleeping pills just two hours ago in the pub. He won’t be coming around until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest, and when he does, there’ll be no one to talk to him. We’ll make sure of it.”
Ian nodded towards the men still yelling at O’Cready and his father. “Make sure half of that gets to the women of that lot over there.”
“You always were a strange one. I’ll do it for you this time, but you were always strange. I never would’a had the bollocks to run the scam you ran at that paper. Undercover you were. Undercover. We read about you and said Ian was undercover. He was conning the whole damn world. That’s our boy,” Del Boy guffawed.
“Aye. That’s me.” Ian picked up his discarded clothes and pulled them on. His head popped through the neck of his hoodie just as his father stormed up to him, spittle flying from his mouth.
“You’re nothin’ but shite. You know that boy? Shite. You come here after disowning your own family, and you think this is the end of it? You’re no better than one of those dogs I’ve got tied up over there. Nothing but a mongrel.”
Ian looked down at that face and let every bit of malice he’d ever felt enter his next words. “Aye. I disowned you, and I’m doing it again. We’re through. But you can take comfort in knowing I’m just doing what you taught me. I fought my way to the top, but you’re nothing and you’ll always be nothing. I’m done with you. And I’m not one of your dogs, old man. Your dogs always lose.”
He turned and left, making a point to shake the hands offered but wanting to get away as soon as he could to wash away the stink of the last hour.
It was only when he got to his hired car that he heard his father bellowing at someone.
Ian turned, bracing himself for another verbal skirmish, only to see that the target wasn’t him. Instead it was a woman with long blonde hair and round features, looking harried and scared as she tried to take care of O’Cready’s injuries. It had been over fifteen years, but Ian immediately recognized Meg O’Malley—now Meg O’Cready—and he immediately started back across the sodden earth, white-hot rage thrumming through his veins.
He’d only made it halfway before his father was dragged away, leaving Meg cowering next to her still-dazed lump of a husband.
Ian stopped, staring at Meg, feeling something welling up inside him. That tone his father had used, the anger, the fear in it . . . He knew that tone, and more to his shame, he’d heard it coming from his own mouth only days before. His body went hot, and then cold, the realization hitting him with a punch far more violent than any he’d ever withstood from any man.
He recalled Sophie’s devastated expression. He heard her angry words telling him he’d been a bully. And she’d been right. He’d been so scared of what caring for her meant—or more to the point, what her caring for him meant—that he’d neglected to see her for who she was, a strong, independent woman whose trust and affection he’d deliberately abused. In trying to hide parts of himself from her eyes, he’d ended up behaving like the very man he’d run from all his life.
Shame left him feeling like vomiting. His forehead became damp.
He had to go back. He had to go back to Sophie. He had to make her understand that he could be the man she’d trusted. He was better than his behavior that day, and by God, she deserved better.
28
A message alert from Sophie’s phone jerked her awake. She inhaled a gulp of air, looking around wildly before realizing where she was. Hank’s sofa.
The sun was rising outside, flushing the sky red.
She must have fallen asleep sometime after midnight. Before that, she’d lain on her side, watching the front door with Hank’s gun next to her, trying to make sense of what had happened. No answers had come yet.
She tried to stretch and winced. Her arms were bruised, and her breast ached where Beau had grabbed her, not to mention that while Hank’s couch was comfortable, it wasn’t a substitute for a bed.
She looked at Hank’s closed bedroom door. He’d come home late, tiptoeing through the house in an effort not to wake her. The whole time, she’d lain still, praying he wouldn’t notice the rifle next to the couch. Luckily he hadn’t.
The fact that he hadn’t tried to wake her up indicated that Beau hadn’t gone to him with some bullshit story to cover his backside. That didn’t mean he hadn’t gotten to her dad or Candy by now. What if Beau told Candy that Sophie had come on to him? Surely her dad or Candy would contact her if he’d said anything, give her a chance to explain. Or would they? Her panic growing, she picked up Hank’s gun and stealthily returned it to his gun safe before going back to huddle on the couch with her chin on her knees.
She’d tried to reconcile the Beau from last night with the friend she’d known for years, but her mind kept protesting, telling her that she must be overreacting, that she must be imagining things, that it had to be her fault somehow. Because why else would he have done that?
And the thought that Beau had seen her and Ian haunted her.
She squeezed her eyes shut tight, so tight that they hurt. This was so, so horrible.
How was she going to break this to Candy?
Her phone beeped again and she flinched.
It was a message from Ian.
Is my cabin still available? I’m coming back on Friday. I want to see you.
Her hands shook as she messaged him back. Why? You made it clear what you think of me. And I don’t want to see you again. Ever.
Ian’s reply came within seconds.
I need to talk to you. Is it still available?
She thought of all the reasons she should say no, but in the end, she couldn’t lie.
Yes because you paid for it but don’t expect what you had before. You’re just a tourist. Nothing else. I’ll clean the cabin, but I don’t want to see you.
She threw her phone down, but immediately picked it up again when she saw there was another message waiting, this one from Beau. It had come in at two in the morning after she’d fallen asleep.
I’m sorry, but if you’re thinking of telling Candy, I have a video of what happened with that guy. I don’t want to use it, but I will. I’ve gone home to Candy, and I’ll talk to you when I get back.
Sophie’s phone fell to her lap.
There was a video? Beau had actually held his phone up and filmed them? What would happen if Beau posted it online? Had the cabin been visible? It could ruin her business. Worse, it could ruin her relationship with her dad. If he saw . . . A cold sweat broke out over Sophie’s body as she imagined the look on his face. He’d realize that letting her into his life was too complicated, that sending her away with her mom had been right because having a daughter in his life was too hard. He’d sent her away once even though he cared, could this be the catalyst for it happening again?
