Fall of Hope (Book 1): Real Heroes Don't Wear Capes (47 page)

With
his hands outstretched, his father asks for the gun. The glint in his
eyes illuminates within the mild light, reminding Bobby of the man he
was years before.

“
Why'd
you do it?”

“
It
was an accident, Bobby,” he rushes to spit out. “An
accident.”

“
Didn't
look like an accident from where I was standing,” he replies
with a tremble in his voice.

“
She
was crazy, you have to believe me. I went to check her when I saw she
wasn't in our bed, but she had a knife hidden in her dress and tried
to stab me. I was acting in self-defence.”

“
You're
a liar!”

“
No,
Bobby. I know I wasn't always nice to her—”

“
You
treated her like crap!”

“
Yes,
but I'd never go that far, I swear.”

Whoever
has been looking after him has been cleaning and ironing his clothes.
There's not one crease on his yellow shirt and he looks sober.
Although, Bobby doubts he would risk his freedom by coming here
without one beer lining his liver.

“
You
beat her all the time! Who'd you think cleaned her up all those
times, dad?”

Locking
onto his father's chest down the barrel, he moves back as his father
approaches. Bobby's finger hovers over the trigger.

Can
I kill someone even if they deserve it? Can I really kill the man who
posed for photos in the albums I look through from time to time?

“
You'll
be in prison if you pull that trigger, Bobby. They don't let daddy
killers out of prison, you know. And you won't like what they do to
little boys like you in there.”

“
Stop
talking to me like I'm a baby! Stay where you are!”

“
They'll
throw away the key and leave you to rot with all those big, bad men.”

“
So
why don't you hand yourself in and save them the trouble?”

The
smile that faded is now back in full force. The genuine emotion in
his eyes tells Bobby everything he needs to know—he has no
remorse, even in the sober light of day.

“
You
took my mum away from me!”

“
And
you took my only son away from me. Seems fair.”

Bobby's
heel connects with the dining chair. He hadn't realised he had come
so far into the front room and, now, there is little room to
manoeuvre.

“
Where
are you going to go now, Bobby? Time to see what you're made of.
Shoot me, Bobby, go on. Or you can put it down before you shoot your
foot off and we can forget all this craziness. You're just like your
mother—absolutely cuck-coo.”

Bobby
hesitates with the anger coursing through his veins like lava. As he
does, his father makes a play for the gun. His larger hand pushes the
barrel sideways as his other smashes into his already bruised
features. Grabbing the gun, his father twists his arm until Bobby's
finger tightens on the trigger from the struggle. He fires a shot
across the floor where it embeds itself into the skirting board.
Startled by the sound, Bobby hisses and lets go of the weapon. Hands
to his face, he touches the bridge of his nose as the pain swells his
eyes into tears.

“
Little
boys shouldn't be messing around with things they don't intend on
using.”

Removing
his hands, another punch drives through his face. The force pushes
him backwards into the table and his head smacks against the wooden
corner. The impact travels through the front of his head and drives a
bolt of red lightning pain into his skull. Blood gushes from his
nostrils again, and he wipes at the liquid with his bare arm as he
attempts to see through the haze.

His
father lays the gun on the sofa where the flowers Danny brought still
sit. They are now shrivelling with crispy brown edges and drooping
over the cushion's edge.

When
his father comes back at him, he lands his boot against his back
twice. Bobby grunts and attempts to curl himself up for protection
against the assault, but it is no use.

“
So
you were just pretending to be a big boy, huh? You should have gone
to the after-party and celebrated her death, then we could have
avoided this confrontation.” With the pretence now gone and the
gun no longer staring him in the face, his father can say what he
likes.

The
warm blood trickling down Bobby's head calls him into the darkness
beyond his conscious. For a second, he believes he has blacked out
until he senses his dad at the window to Bobby's right. He pulls the
curtains across to block out any unwanted attention from the
neighbours.

Someone
must have heard the gun go off.

“
I
thought you'd thank me for putting her out of her misery.”

A
boot slams into his stomach with force and catches his fingers. He
hears his own pleas for the man to stop, but his words sound distant.

“
Stop?
You started this, Bobby. There's no quitting now.”

Grabbing
Bobby by the collar, his father drags him over the carpet. When
Benji's shirt rolls up around his shoulder blades, the crumbs and
fluff run along his spine from where the floor hasn't seen a vacuum
for days.

“
Get
up. Come on, you little pussy.”

Bobby
rolls onto his other side, feeling the carpet slide across his cheek.

“
You
know, your mum begged me to spare her life as I dragged her from your
bed.”

The
words resonate within his fuzzy head like the sea inside a shell.
Gritting his teeth, he uses his shaky palms to push himself onto his
knees. As another kick comes to his bruised ribs, Bobby releases a
breathless squeal, then curls back into himself, clutching at the
pain.

“
You
have no idea how
many
nights I sat in the pub drinking and wishing it was you instead of
Benji—my boy.”

Pulling
his head back up, Bobby glares at the figure and tries to get up. He
thought this man was his father, but now he can see him for what he
really is as he watches Bobby's feeble attempt with a wild grin.

“
It's
not that bad. You can do it,” he hears Gage prompting inside
his skull.

“
I
wish that, too. Maybe then I would remember you as a decent person,”
Bobby stutters.

Each
limb shakes as he pulls himself to his feet with only the anger of
what happened to his mother driving him on. He faces the man and his
reflection in the mirror above the fireplace that no one has used in
years. Blood spills down his lips, and he lets it. Under the bruises,
his eyes stare out from the red lines and harsh shadows as he stands
in full sight of the painting.

“
S
he
blamed you for Benji's death too, did you know that? Why do you think
she lost her marbles, hey? She couldn't take what you did, or accept
the fact you were the one still alive.”

“
It
wasn't my fault, it was yours! All those times you beat her and slept
around with any drunken whore you could find—that's what drove
her to that state!”

“
Well,
why don't you do something about that, hey? Here's a little
incentive: I'm taking the money, then Marlene and I are going to
start a new life. Every time she used to come around to see your mum,
it was really to see me. She couldn't get enough of me.”

Without
thinking of the consequences, or what he intends on doing, he rushes
at his father with blind anger. The hand which catches him pushes him
sideways and sends him sprawling into the coffee table.

Forceful
punches land against his stomach and face as he drops his knee on the
table. Blood and spit flies from his mouth in feeble grunts, and he
only just manages to raise his hands to block the blows.

Underneath
his weight, the wooden legs crumble and he plummets to the ground.
Before he can register the fall, the looming figure's knuckles crack
against his cheek. The first punch sends his vision wavering from the
piercing pain. The second catches above his eye, forcing the previous
wound to open again and spill down his face.

He
avoids gripping for the ache in his back as he lies there spitting
blood over his neck.

“
You
seriously thought you could beat me, huh?”

Rolling
onto his side, Bobby uses his fingers to claw his way back onto his
knees, but his father's boot slams against his spine. As he crashes
back against the carpet, a harsh groan escapes his mouth.

“
Where
do you think you're going?” The words almost sound musical as
they chime from his lips.

There's
no magical place, I'm so stupid. Now I'm going to die here.

As
his father leans down, the amused expression changes to quizzical as
his face comes closer to his. His heated breath burns the liquid
already there as the nictotine stench graces his cheek.

His
father tugs again at his collar, but this time, he frees the goggles
from the pocket to inspect them.

“
What
are these?”

“
They're
Benji’s,” he forces himself to spit.

“
What
are you doing with these? You went into his room, didn't you?”

“
He
gave them to me.”

As
his father stares at the goggles, the first real emotion fills his
face—genuine sorrow. A frown forms as he moves them around
within his hands, allowing his fingers to run over the surface.

Bobby
forces himself back onto his side, then his stomach. His head bends
upwards to avoid a collision with the single sofa. There, he finds
his palms and pushes himself to his knees.

“
I
warned you not to go in there and touch his stuff.”

If
it was me who died, would he even remember me now?

“
I
told you what would happen if you went inside there.”

Would
he have become an alcoholic, serial cheat and wife beater if it were
me.

“
Didn't
I?”

His
callous fingers wrap around the thick, plastic frame, but he doesn't
squeeze. He is about to release them, but changes his mind. The anger
dissolves over his features as he grips tighter.

He
means to take them with him.

As
Bobby bites his bottom lip and tastes blood, he makes a grab for the
gun, then falls backwards on his ass.

“
What
did I tell you—?” Turning around, his father's words
catch in his throat as he acknowledges the gun back in his son's
hands. A glimmer of something close to amused fear bolts through his
eyes, forcing his pupils to expand. When he goes to speak again,
Bobby cuts him off.