Surviving You: Shameless, #2

Prologue

TWELVE YEARS EARLIER

I drain the cold liquid from my glass and tip the remaining ice cubes into the wastebasket. Placing the glass against my bedroom wall, I listen closely to the loud noises coming from the next-door-neighbour’s bedroom. My lungs fill with much-needed air, the muffled ringing in my ears beginning to dull. Closing my eyes as tight as they can go, I gasp, trying to control my breathing; not wanting to make a single sound. My heartbeat thunders a hundred miles per hour inside my chest as I attempt to slow it with deep, calming breaths. I cover my other ear with my free hand in the hopes that the sounds will come through the glass pressed against the wall a little clearer.

It sounds like people are shouting; a woman and a man, maybe. They’re arguing about something, screaming at the top of their lungs. She’s crying now, hiccupping with each sob. I can’t hear anyone else in the room with them, just those two unfamiliar voices.

Standing here on the chair, in my pink nightgown in the dark, I see him: a boy standing against his window. I jump with fear, startled. What is he doing? I move my head closer, squinting my eyes together. He’s crying. I think he is hurt in some way. I can see his hands; his palms are flat against the window pane. The tears are streaming down his face, soaking his cheeks like the heavens have just opened and poured down around him.

I step off the chair slowly, not taking my eyes off this boy whose skin is stained with blood and tears. Placing my glass on the nightstand, I move slowly over to the window to get a closer look. I want to go to him, ask him why he is in so much pain, but I don’t want to scare him. A dull ache settles in my chest, my heart hurts for him.

As I lean against the cold glass, my heart breaks a little bit more. I watch hopelessly as his pain unfolds in front of my eyes. Each tear falling from his beautiful, dark eyes pierces my heart, sending a wave of pain through me. I press my cheek against the glass, my breath steaming up the window.

I want to help him. He might be hurt.

Someone else might be hurt.

Yet, I can’t do anything but reach out to him. I push from the window with my hands—my back hitting the wall to the side of me—and slide slowly down the wall to the floor while my eyes remain glued to the figure before me. Tears roll down my cheeks, my own fear matching the beautiful boy.

1

Lee

My name is Lee Young. I can either be your best friend or your worst nightmare. The choice is all yours. This guy is playing me, fucking with me yet again. What a complete useless tosser.

Yet, he knows exactly what he’s doing. Wrong move, motherfucker. All he had to do was sort out the location for the drop. I asked him to do one thing. One fucking damn thing and he completely fucks it up, leaving me to find a new location. Dumb little shit.

I want this done and dusted. It is one of the last jobs I’ll ever do. This job is the one that will set me up financially for years to come and will get my sister and I the fuck out of this gangster shit lifestyle we were born into living.

Fuck it, Liam, I’ll do it myself, I growl down the phone, my tone sharp and short.

Lee, man, let me sort this shit out for you. I can do it, mate. Just give me another chance, please? I’m begging you, Liam answers in his trembling, nervous, annoying-as-fuck voice. He sniffs inwardly through his nose, like his nostrils are packed full of shit, which only serves to piss me off even more.

Running my hand through my hair, I rest it on the back of my neck in an attempt to soothe the blood threatening to boil up inside of me and spill out in frustration. I force the air into my lungs and close my eyes, taking deep, controlled breaths.

No, Liam, this was your last chance. You're fucking done, you get me? Done. Slamming my phone down on the passenger seat with more force than I intended, it bounces off the windscreen and onto the floor. I see my eyes now, staring back at me in the rear-view mirror, scowling dark brown, rimmed with thick black lashes. Lines crease between my eyes as my anger increases.

Turning towards the steering wheel, my hands grip the red and black leather tightly. Everything about this car sends tingles up and down my spine and calms my ever-growing anger. The leather bucket seats, interior, exterior, shiny black bodywork—if this car were a woman, she would be banged right where she’s parked.

I start up my Nissan Skyline and head out to call in well-overdue debts. My foot hits the pedal, turning onto the M62 and I hope to fuck no one gets in my way or gives me any more shit today. Because if they do fucking heads will roll. I arrive at Garthorpe Road in Wythenshawe, wanting to be anywhere else but in my hometown of Manchester. I park the car up on the curb outside Smithy’s hovel that he calls a house. I can’t get my head around why he moved back in here when he had a shit hot apartment to live in. This shit hole belonged to his family. He grew up in it and says he feels closer to them now they aren’t around anymore. It used to be a home; warm and inviting. I used to go ‘round for my tea as a really young child before his parents died; when the smell of home-cooked food filled the place, and the fire was always lit. His mum kept ornaments all over the house, horse and cart style, royal family cups and plates sat proudly in a glass and wooden cabinet. His mum would sit and play with us on the living room floor: Connect 4, Monopoly, you name it. She looked just like an angel, his mum did, sent down from heaven, and then she was gone and became one for real. Now the house is run-down, with not an ornament or board game in sight. It is cold and badly in need of decorating. He has all the mod cons technology wise, but the house has lost that warmth of being a family home now; it’s as if his parents were never here. Smithy’s aunt had moved in shortly after, but whatever family was left didn’t have a lot to do with Smithy. He was ‘round our house more often than not, and it was obvious losing his parents took something from him; that light he had inside him snuffed out. For a long time, my dad tried to make sure he got some of that back.

I push my gun in the back of my jeans and jump out, slamming the car door behind me with more force than intended. I stalk toward his front door, cringing at the sound my car just made.

All right, mate? I greet a pale-faced, scruffy-looking Smithy standing in the doorway in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs. His normally tanned skin is pastier than usual. He used to be built like a tank, but his once huge-muscled frame has turned to skin and bone. With a few days’ worth of stubble on his chin, he looks like the cokehead he's turned into. Like the ghost of my old friend.

All right, Lee, mate? How's things? he asks.

Calling all debts in, Smith. As in now. I look around the hovel he lives in, taking in the two half- naked bitches lying on the sofa.

They’re all completely wasted on the coke they've sniffed up their noses, looking messed up with just-fucked hair and smudged lipstick. The smell of sex permeates the air and condom wrappers are scattered on the floor around the room. I pick up some bits of clothes in front of my feet that I assume belong to them and launch them at the two women with a scowl on my face.

I don’t have the patience for this shit, I bellow at them. Put some fucking clothes on, bitches. The blonde lifts her hands up in the air in a surrender gesture.

Okay, Mr. Angry Pants. She laughs, smiling and staring at me like she wants to eat me. Aiming my death scowl at Smithy, he ushers both women into his bedroom as fast as he can move them.

My eyes take in everything around me. Lines of coke, a credit card, and a rolled up twenty lay out on the coffee table. Bags of drugs and a few empty ones litter the once nice-looking room. Empty beer bottles lie on the floor and vodka sits on the table. All of this out in the open for the whole fucking world to see. What the fuck is he playing at?

Smithy comes back into the living room dressed in a white tee and jeans. My dog, a black and white Staffordshire bull terrier named Sniper, runs on the treadmill in the corner of the room. He’s breathing hard, his white teeth on show and pink tongue catching each of his breaths. Fuck, the dog’s got more meat and muscle on him than Smithy. I walk over to him and kneel down to pat his head in greeting. Smithy has looked after him well for me; I’ll give him that. Once I get my shit sorted, he's coming back to Scotland with me and out of this dump for good.

There was a time I would have gone right back to that bedroom with those two bitches as soon as I walked through the front door. Would have fucked their brains out into the house next door, but not anymore. I don’t have the time or space in my head for anyone right now. My thoughts are pre-occupied with a certain brunette that’s currently a few hundred miles away anyhow. Women complicate things too much, and my life is far too complicated as it is.

Fifty grand, Smith. I want it back yesterday, mate. I pin him with my scowl.

I've been mates with this guy since I was four years old. I do not want to beat him to death because of money. Or anything else for that matter. He might have different parents, but he’s my brother all the same.

Calm the fuck down, Lee, mate. Seriously, you need anger fucking management.

He waves his hand towards the safe on the far wall and moves in that direction. I turn off the treadmill, releasing Sniper, who immediately jumps on me, forcing my ass to Smithy’s sofa. He licks every part of my face he can get his tongue around, wagging his black tail like a windscreen wiper on rapid. Smithy takes out fifty grand, bags it, and hands it over to me. Searching my face with a quizzical look, he asks, Why now, mate? You in trouble?

He searches my blank expression for an answer, but I close down any indication of why I'm calling everything in. I've learned never to show any sign of weakness, even to one of my oldest friends. My dad taught me well… among other things. I stand and move to walk out of the door. With the door handle in my hand, I twist it, but turn back to Smithy before I leave.

Just want what's mine. Put the word out, mate. I’ll be in touch in a few days. And sort your shit out. This place is a fucking mess. Walking away with his eyes burning into my back, I reach my car and drive off, not looking back at the area my dad once ran like an army.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror, a bulletproof vest protecting my torso. Here’s hoping they've got a shit aim and I don’t end up with a bullet in my brain. I checked into a hotel—a hotel that belongs to my father—so I can be in and out of this job and get to my uncle in record time. This life… it’s like being a ghost, sweeping in and out of places undetected. I need to get out, I must get out of this life, I scream inside my head.

I run my hand over my Kevlar, double checking it’s secure, checking I have everything I need. Next, I slide on my black gloves and head out into the dimly lit hallway. I scan it as I move, seeing there’s nobody around, thank fuck. The light bulb in the hall is flickering on and off. I must remember to tell my dad to fix that.

Making my way through the back exit fire door, careful not to let it slam shut, I head down to where I parked the car needed for this job. One I can burn after this is done. I drive to Hollyhedge Road in Benchill. I got word that the guy we’ve been looking for will be at a garage there working late and alone. This motherfucker owes us money… a lot of money.

We did some digging; found out he’s a fucking convicted paedophile, and they let the fucker out amongst kids, near schools and parks. I don’t give a shit about the money. He’s fucking dead.

The sound of the car door slamming shut echoes around the garage walls. Tucked behind the dark alleyway at the side, I watch him move around the car, and wait silently for my chance. My skin is itching with need, to torture the fucker until he bleeds out. The clinking of another car door opening makes my heart race even faster. My knuckles crack with the intensity of my grip on my gun. I'm a fucking killer, a murderer, the monster my dad has created. I don’t want to be this man, but right now I want nothing more than to spill this evil monster’s blood.

I slide my back against the wall as silently as possible, keeping my eyes locked onto my target the whole time. He moves back to the engine of the car he’s working on and leans in to take a look. I take my chance.

Coming up behind him, I reach my arm around his neck putting my gun between his legs, so it’s wedged under his balls, and I fire the gun, letting his body slide to the floor. Easy.

My breathing becomes ragged. My bulging muscles cord with my effort to turn him around and face me. I need to kill. It is the only way to stop this rage deep inside me, to temper the constant haze of red—I need more blood.

I lift my arm without saying a single word and aim it at the dirty scum currently quivering and begging for his life on the garage floor. I pay him no mind, ignoring his pleas. It has to be done. I need to make it right and get some kind of justice for those kids he hurt. Just thinking about that makes the blood in my veins boil even more, so I fire again, this time right between the eyes, his blood spattering everywhere.

I growl to myself, I’ll do your job for you. I talk to myself, or God, or the justice system; I’m not exactly sure. Fire pulses through my veins with such intensity as the adrenaline takes over that I start to move away from the body and into the dark shadows of the garage walls. Suddenly, I hear footsteps coming towards the entrance of the garage, so I move quicker and head for the car, getting out of there as fast as my legs can carry me.

2

Lilah

As soon as we exit the police station, I rush over to Jane. Congratulations! She smiles and accepts my hug, her arms spread out wide. I hold her tightly in my arms. I’m so proud of her. My smile is wide while she wraps her arms around me. It feels good to know she’s taken another step forward.

I love my job, but I don’t love what these women go through. However, I love when they take the leap towards their freedom. Behind the scenes of the café Dana and I run together, we run a Women’s Aid; a place women and children can come to, a safe place. The café is a cover for what we really do. Initially, Dana set it up to help women like us—women like me. I suffered at the hands of my ex-boyfriend’s brutal temper, as Dana did hers, and she didn’t want to see anyone else suffer the same fate, so I helped.

Pulling back from Jane's hold, I place her hand in mine and admit, It was my pleasure, sweet.

I run her through the plan of action as we walk the length of the car park. So now that we have the interdict out on him, we have the law on your side, so he doesn’t have a leg to stand on. Should give you some breathing space at least. I run my hand up her arm in a comforting gesture. If he tries to contact you in any way, shape, or form, call the police, okay? Then you call me. Anytime, Jane, doesn’t matter if it’s in the middle of the night. I give her a pointed look, hoping she sees the sincerity in my eyes. I can’t stress enough that we’re all here for her no matter what.

Jane rolls her eyes at me. Yes, I promise I will call them, and then I’ll call you. And the police are going to fit those house alarms once I get re-housed.

I chuckle because we have been through this before. It isn’t even funny, not the reality of it, but Jane is only eighteen and thinks of me as being too overprotective. I like to make sure people have things in place to keep them safe from violent predators, from the nightmares that keep them awake at night. And I hope they stay that way. If I could find my ex, I would do the same, but it’s like he never existed—he just disappeared off the face of the earth, like a creepy little spider. I have been where Jane is now: scared out of my mind, looking over my shoulder every time I step out of my front door, panicked thoughts and fear pulsing through me, whirling inside my mind. I might be physically free of him now, but am I really? In my head, I’m not, and I wonder if I will ever be free of him. I still feel I’m living like a prisoner, wondering if I am going to die today or the next day at the hands of my ex-partner Mike. He was brutally wicked to me, punishing me for what, I still don’t know. Tortured for not toeing the line like he felt I should have when I always tried to