West-End Boys (Naïve Mistakes) (5 page)

"I used to believe, in the early days, that there was one guy at the top. But you know what I learned, Leora? You know what was the hardest lesson to sink in? It
isn't
one guy! It
isn't
one organization! It's anyone and everyone who gets a piece of the pie.

"It's the dope runner, the bad cop, the medical doctor making a cut from writing a few extra prescriptions for Ritalin so it can be sold and snorted on the streets as kiddie coke. It's the dude hoping for a free fix.

"And so it goes. It's a fucking losing battle...

"I don't give a fuck about humanity, about crack-heads and pot-heads... They screw their own lives up. But this scene has taken so much from me personally. Do you know I haven't seen my brother since last year? For all I know he's dead, OD'ed under some bridge, rotting and being eaten away by rats."

I traced one of the scars on his knuckles with my index, down to his middle knuckle, to the nail. I kissed it.

He grabbed my hand, brought it to his lips, kissed my fingers once. "I can't give it up," he said. "I can't. It's...it's my own drug, I know. And I have no use for the information and— No, that's not true. I do have use for it. It helped save you, didn't it?"

Shit, he was right. I nodded reluctantly.

He put my hand on his knee, rubbed it. "But you're right, I need to stop. It's enough. Alex is safe, you are safe. It's enough now. A new leaf, like the
Twilight
soundtrack."

I smiled, remembering how he'd started listening to that as a sign he'd let go of his past.

"Like the
Twilight
soundtrack," I agreed.

I saw in his face that he
suddenly took a warp-speed trip somewhere and left me in his dusty wake here in the lounge. "Conall?"

"Huh?"

"Where did you go?"

He smiled embarrassedly. "Sorry... I'll let it go, Leora. Except for one thing... There's just one more thing I need to take care of in this area. I can't let this one go."

I stared at him. After an awkward moment it became obvious he wasn't going to tell me what it was. "When will you let me in on it? You can't keep shutting me out anymore, Conall."

"And I don't want to shut you out. Call it old skeletons. If I could, I'd tell you, Leora. Hopefully it will be over soon, then you'll know it."

I frowned. "I don't like it."

"Neither do I." Then again, more quietly this time, "Neither do I."

I lay on his knees, stretching out on the red leather couch. My eyes closed, occasionally opening to see the flames of the fireplace still burning, sending me into another world, a world without light, without earth or the Atlantic, without the great gulf between two countries that are brothers but which are also not. I thought of a pond, a man, a tattoo, a death...

-3
-

I dreamed. And in my dream I was in water. Black water where things or fish swam against my toes and then through my legs, against my butt, my crotch...

"Who—who are you!?" I demanded in my dream. Demanded of the water itself because the water was alive, breathing, pulsing. Its cover was as the cover of a lung, hissing and calling and—

The fish or thing under the water stroked my leg again. It felt like cold fingers, bony and moist. Calloused. The water itself throbbed once and whispered my name. Called me down  below and so I went into it and swam down, down, down into the dark depths and looked at its blackness.

Then I saw the man.

"Hey, baby, what joo doin here?"

Raphael Varela sat on a throne, Kayla bent over his knees, her white bottom bared up to the world. He held a scepter in his hand. A scepter that became a whip, and he lashed her. He hit her and cut her beautiful bum until it was red with streaks of flailed skin and all the while he smiled. Smiled with gleaming white teeth and said, "Hey, my little
chiquita
, want some E? Do joo? Jour friend here"—he whipped her again and she gasped—"she liked the E. She liked it so much that she
fucked
me for it!"

His smile disappeared and he bared his fangs, deadly and bloody, and he threw her body on the ground and kicked her once in the ribs. Blood trickled down her lips. She stretched out her arm to me and I tried to run to her but I couldn't. I was stuck. I tried to scream, tried with all my will but no sound came out!

I thought of her dying, of what life would be like without her. There would be no life. None at all.

Raphael approached. Donned in a regal red and purple robe. He sauntered over toward me, gold scepter flashing, changing into a whip, then a scepter, a whip.

He cracked it once so that it stung my nose and a fire flared on my face where the whip had been. My hand went to it. He laughed. Laughed so that it echoed in this room whose walls I could not see. When the echoes returned they were not his voice. They were the voices of children, bullies on a playground. And they were hitting another child, a smaller one, a little girl, with a stick, so that her screams also echoed back and entered my mind like the discordant clash of instruments screeching in my ear.

The little girl screamed as the other children beat her.

And yet, I still couldn't see them, could only hear their voices, their echoes.

Raphael's continuing laughter swirled around me like a thick blanket, thundering and penetrating. It hit me in the ears and sank to my stomach, laughed inside me. Laughed so much in me that my body trembled and quaked.

And in my mind I was thinking,
I know gravity magic. Come to me you fucking bastard!

And he came to me. He flung himself and I readied myself to attack and called upon the magic—

I called upon—

Oh, fuck. It's not magic. It has another name. Oh,
no, I forgot it!
"Conall, help!"

I felt the cut against my ass, hot and thin, and heard the crack of his whip. I was on his knees now.
How did I get here?
His hand wrapped around my naked butt.
No, please no...

"Joo want some E, baby?"

No, I don't. This is a mistake. No! I don't want any E!

No words escaped me. I thought the words but nothing was said. And then I felt it. Razor-sharp. A slash against my ass again and the crack of a whip, hot as magma, searing and burning.

In my thoughts I'm screaming, howling over the mountains and through the trees.

But no one hears me in this room.

Kayla's body is below me, her eyes hollow, her skin livid. She has a fixed look on her face. She doesn't seem to be breathing. Or is she?

I think I see blood on her chest. I think I see—

"Joo want some E, baby?"

Crack!

No! No! I don't want— I don't want—

-4
-

"I don't—"
Gasp!

I quickly looked around the room. Where was I? What—?

Monsters and figures of Raphael jumped at me from the shadows of the chalet bedroom cupboards for a second or two until I put the side-lamp on. How had I gotten here? Did Conall carry me? I fumbled on my left, felt a body. Panicked. Realized it was Conall. Was it? I moved the sheets. Yes, yes, Conall.

I breathed, touched him again. Inhaled slowly. Swallowed hard. Kissed him once on the head.

The dream had been so vivid and real that I knew I'd fall straight back into it if I closed my eyes again, even with the lights on. I got up, went to the bathroom and splashed water on my face, looked at those light-brown almost-nineteen-year-old eyes of mine in the mirror that appeared, tonight, like they belonged to someone who was ninety, someone who'd lived all they could and lost all they had.

I rubbed a hand through my hair, splashed some more water on my face, then on my shoulders, my neck. Sighed. I looked behind me, using the mirror, the way someone does when they're still not entirely certain it had all been a dream, saw Conall's body. His chest heaved peacefully under the comforter.

My
Conall.

I tried to understand why he meant so much to me, realizing as well that I meant as much to him. The thought made me smile briefly. Because it
was
magical, inexplicable. I'm sure some scientist some day might break it down into hormones and synapsing synapses or whatever. But what difference does it make? Despite all the discoveries they've made about semen linking with ovaries to make a baby and blah blah blah 
yawn—
Does it change the splendor of a new-born child?

Something had clicked between us—hormonally, physically, emotionally. Whatever. Who gave a shit what it was. It meant something to me and that's what was impo
rtant. And we needed each other, needed each other fully

What I would major in next year at college had little meaning left to me. It didn't matter. I knew my life would be lived with Conall, whatever I chose to do. And I knew that it would be lived in England. And if he moved elsewhere, it would be lived there.

A flash of light reflected in the mirror and made my heart pause briefly. I gasped, saw that it was nothing.

Back in the room I grabbed the paperback I'd been reading before the trip, snuggled into bed. I read until the sun rose. Finally I fell asleep.

Thankfully, I was too tired by that time to dream again.

-1-

On the last day of our stay in Switzerland we partied like animals and drank like mermaids. In the end, Kayla and I cried more than Natalie Portman when she won Best Actress for
Black Swan
. Alexandra was really staying behind.

"I don't know how long it will be," she said, her voice barely audible above the
Chillout
din. We hugged and swayed and cried and drank and, well, cried some more. Alex looked happy. And me? I was going back...to the city. Back to noise and smog and fear and claustrophobia. I still hadn't spoken to Conall about us living together. What our plan was. I loved him, but he knew as well as I that I needed to get back to work. Back to proving to myself that I could survive without him.

And what of next year, when I had to go to college? The University of England was two hours from where he lived now. I didn't expect him to move over to West Sussex because of it. And the time in between? Would I just move in with him? I practically had already. Maybe I could find a job in London. That way I could be with him. But was I really ready to move in with someone, officially?

With Conall, yes. Maybe I was. And yet, inside me, something burned with fear because of it. I had no explanation for it. The best I could figure it out was that I still wanted to prove to myself that I could make it on my own. The six months he and I had been apart had almost destroyed me. Now we were closer. And I knew that, if we had a choice, nothing would get in our way. But all the things that had gotten in our way so far had
not
been by our choice. They'd been external forces, people meddling, things out of our control.

I was more afraid than ever of losing him. Conall had come to be my entire world. And life without him would end my own life. Of that I was absolutely and unconditionally certain.

His comments of 'just one more thing to take care of' also had not helped.

The thought of being away from him actually hurt. It felt like someone decking me in my stomach and then driving through all the way up into my lungs.

I think that's part of why I drank so much that night. I couldn't face returning. I couldn't face the sky falling down which is exactly what it was doing. The time away had been great. I realized again that Dr. Gehrig had been right. And I completely and utterly comprehended why Alex was staying here.

Because it felt safe.

I didn't feel safe going back.

And yet I had to go back. Because life goes on. And I needed to face it.

-2-

All I remember is waking up the next morning feeling like my Krav Maga Martial Arts lessons had started early or that I'd been slammed ten times over the head with a hockey stick. I took two painkillers (Conall was pissed about that) and slept on the plane.

When we landed, my throat caught.

"You OK?" asked Conall as we stepped off the plane at Gatwick. Smog crawled down my throat like needles embedded in glue.

I tried to swallow, tried to answer. All I managed was a firm nod of the head. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and headed me over to the concourse.

There were too many people, too many stores, too many sounds. It felt like Grand Central multiplied by ten with every person in it buzzing from too much Red Bull.

Conall noticed my unease and kept prodding to check if I was OK. I lied. But I knew he was seeing straight through me. We passed a newsstand, a Café Nero stand. I recalled the Café Nero I liked going to in Seaford, sitting back on the brown couches there reading a book. I thought back to Dani, of working at
Jolly Roger
, thought of the seagulls, the salty air...

When we got out to the street the clanking sounds of construction workers cut into my tranquilizing daydream. I looked above me and saw we were under scaffolding. Panicked. It felt like I'd been locked in a coffin and someone was shaking it, ready to throw it into the ocean.

"We're almost there," said Conall in my ear. I was a wreck, feeling like an invalid. But I couldn't help it. The sounds were menacing. The people were all devils to me in that moment.

I was in a full-blown panic-stricken flashback.

Before I knew it we were in a car that smelled a little too much of air freshener and cigarettes combined. The brown leather seats were cold against my hands as I sat on them but when the door closed I eased up a little. Conall shifted over to the middle of the back-seat, put his hand on my knee.

The driver must've been late fifties, unshaven for a few days. Talkative. So
frickin talkative that it actually helped calm me down, the constant groan of his voice in the background sounding like a song that puts you to sleep. He spoke of his wife, his kids, his daughter off to college, his son who was about to have a baby and did we have any kids? and wasn't it blooming crazy what Labor was doing and what's that Gordon Brown up to these days, the bastard. So glad they got rid of him all those years ago.

I actually smiled in the end.

Entering the long driveway of Conall's stately home felt like being lifted out of the furthest depths of the Bermuda Triangle. The place was serene. The mock-Tudor style peacefully familiar. When we entered the house and the fresh scent of wood wafted into my nose, I actually felt my shoulders ease down, realizing only then that they'd been hunched and tensed ever since we'd landed.

Conall grabbed our bags and asked me if I'd be OK downstairs while he put them away in the main bedroom. Of course I'd be OK. This was his home. Safe.

While he carried the bags up I walked around the familiar lounge, saw the fireplace we'd sat at night after night sipping wine.

I walked into the bar, remembered seeing him after all those months, remembered him kissing me on the stool. I looked out at the huge garden, the Hollywood swing outside. A wrought-iron table.

I went back to the lounge, sat down on the couch. Exhaled with relief.

I heard Conall's footsteps loudly, as if he were warning me that he was coming so as not to scare me. I've never been one to feel weak and afraid. Having grown up in the culture of weight-lifting, being taught to box by my dad in The Bronx, I'd always considered myself a tough-girl. Maybe even like one of the guys.

But all of that had changed the day those bastards took me.

Trey's self-defense lessons couldn't start soon enough.

"You OK?" asked Conall as he stepped into the room.

I didn't even hear my voice when I answered. Maybe I didn't answer. But I'm sure I at least nodded.

He sat next to me and pulled me toward him. "It'll get better. Don't worry about it."

I said nothing. Only hoped it was true. My mind was already calculating when Kayla would arrive, when Conall would leave the house again, how long I'd be alone at any given stage. I knew Conall wouldn't leave me alone. And I both hated and appreciated that.

I needed to find myself again. I needed to move past what had happened. But it all felt so far out of my control!

"When can I start those lessons with Trey?" I said.

"He's waiting for my call. He'll be ready when you are."

"I'm not ready. Not ready for anything. I feel like a five year old girl. It's freaking ridiculous!"

"Leo, look at me. It's not ridiculous. It's amazing you've held up as much as you have. You're the toughest blooming person I know." He shook me lightly by the shoulders as if to wake me up.

His statement had gotten a wan smile out of me. "I'm not going to be someone you have to take care of, Conall. I have to get on my own two feet."

"I know that. And I also know there will be times when you'll need to take care of
me
. And believe me, you'll have your work cut out for you!"

I rested my head on his chest, prepared myself mentally for the next hour, the next day. I would face this. I would get back on my own feet and survive this, live a normal life again!

"Brad and Kayla will be here tomorrow, at the cottage. You're safe here, Leo."

"Thank you." I knew I was safe at the house. Logically I knew that. Emotionally, I didn't. I 'knew' the exact opposite.

Dr. Gehrig had suggested the time away, then taking it step by step. Maybe visiting the little village only a few minutes by foot from where Conall lived—
with
someone. Then walking over to the park, then a little further. He said eventually my mind would "click back into place." He was real old-school, and I liked that about him. I'd seen far too many people get zombied out back home with their anti-depressants and happy pills and other mind-altering drugs whose side effects were suicide even though they were prescribed to handle thoughts of suicide. Yeah, I never understood that one myself.

But I actually did feel better. In truth, I did. The progress was small, minuscule even, but it was there. And now that I'd settled down on the couch and breathed for a second or two I realized that, even though I'd been afraid when we'd arrived at the airport, it hadn't been nearly as bad a panic attack as that first one up in Conall's room all those weeks back. I hadn't screamed or gone into fetal-position tremors, paralyzed and unable to move.

So the trip
had
helped.

Baby steps.

Little baby steps.

-3-

"Remember this?" said Conall. He was holding a Perrier bottle of water.

I smiled. "How could I forget?"

He walked over and poured me a glass, as if we were drinking real wine.

"No wine for you?" I said, snuggled up on his couch with my feet up on the seat.

"I think you had enough wine for both of us for a month yesterday!"

I tried to laugh but it hurt my head. A brief flash hit me of Alex's smiling face as we'd waved goodbye and gotten into the helicopter for the Sion airport.

"I'm gonna miss her, you know?" I said, "Alex."

"She's a missable person." He stared at his glass.

I wanted to tell him how amazing he was. How I admired his capacity for love despite all he'd been through. I hoped telling him I loved him would be enough to convey that. "I love you, you know that?"

He smiled weakly so that it barely reached his eyes. "I know."

"I don't know how you survived. When she..."

He lifted his eyebrows, sighed. "People are stronger than you think. It's only those that give up trying that start to die slowly."

The words went to my core and rang like a taut harp inside my ears. "I'm going to get better, Conall. I promise."

"Get better? That sounds like there's something wrong with you."

"There is."

"Bullshit. It's only normal. It'll pass. People are stronger than they realize. If that weren't true humans would've been overtaken by apes centuries ago."

A pause.

"Conall, I..." I struggled for the words. "I love you, but... Look, I need to know that I can survive on my own. I mean, we haven't spoken about us living together and that I was working before and saving up and college next year and—"

"Leo, I hear you. No need to explain. But first things first. It would be a sound investment for me to buy a place at Seaford if you wanted to go back there. You can even stay in your dingy little room there if you want to. I understand the need to feel you can make it on your own before settling in with someone. I really do. And I also understand that all of this has moved too fast for you. Then all the crap that got in the way. Hell, if you'd known what I'd bring to the table—"

"Then I would've made the same decision—to be with you!"

He put his hand over mine, smiled. "But it's all been too fast anyway. Me, I'm an old man—"

"You're twenty-four."

"Almost twenty-five. As I said, old."

I cocked an eyebrow.

He became more serious suddenly. "The truth is, I felt like an old man sometimes." He sat back. "I think age is determined by how much you've suffered, and how much you've let that suffering affect you."

Silence twirled in the air. I thought again of the death of his sister, his unloving father...

"And then," he continued, "when I met you, my mind changed about that. I realized that age is determined not only by how much one has suffered, but also by how much one has loved and been loved in return.

"I felt like I was forty when I met you, Leora. I feel eighteen most of the time now." His eyes sparkled.

"Eighteen?"

"Maybe even younger." He grinned.

I didn't feel that way at all. In my mind I felt like I was fast approaching middle-age. I felt like I'd lived half my life. "You're right," I said.

"That I'm really eighteen?"

"Well, that too. But, about the suffering...and age. And a person's perception of it."

"Strange how it works, isn't it? I'm only sorry that with you it went the other way round. I met you and I became younger. You met me and hit middle-age."

I threw a pillow at him! "Asshole! You never tell a girl that!"

He leaned closer, kissed me once on the lips, then the cheek. "I'd love you still if you were approaching retirement, if you were wrinkly and feeble. I'll always love you."