Ben Cheetham - The Society of Dirty Hearts

Somehow Julian got through the night. Somehow he drove to the factory. He limped to his office and sat behind the desk, staring dead-eyed at the computer monitor, thinking, what the fuck am I doing here? Why did I come in today? Where else have you got to go? his mind asked. I should be out there, he replied silently. Doing what? I don’t know, something…

Julian gave a start when his dad entered the room. “Where did you get to last night?” Robert asked.

“I went to see Eleanor.”

“How’s the website going?”

Julian blinked his sore eyes. He’d forgotten all about the website. After what’d happened, it was a fair bet to assume it wasn’t going anywhere. He wasn’t about to tell his dad that, though. He didn’t have the heart or energy to face his disappointment and questions. “Fine.”

Robert raised a smiling eyebrow. “When are you two going to get back together?”

Julian winced, not because of his leg. “I don’t know, probably never.”

“That’s a shame. She’s a great girl and you’re really good-” Noticing his son’s increasingly pained expression, Robert broke off. “You’re upset aren’t you, I can see it.” He hesitated, looking like what he was — someone on unfamiliar terrain — then asked a little awkwardly, “Want to talk about it?”

Julian shook his head. Even if he’d wanted to, he wouldn’t have known how to talk about it, not with his dad. “Well you know where I am if you change your mind,” continued Robert, with a flicker of something in his eyes that might’ve been disappointment or, more likely, thought Julian, relief.

He nodded. “Thanks.”

A moment’s silence passed between them. Robert scratched at the base of his neck and cleared his throat. “Listen, Julian, you remember that guy from the other day? The buyer from the high-street store. Well, he’s coming here again this morning. I was going to ask you to sit in on the meeting, but you’re obviously in no state for it. You look as if you haven’t slept a wink.”

“I haven’t. I was up…working most of the night.”

“In that case, why don’t you go home, get some sleep?”

Sleep. The word sent a shudder through Julian. Along with a guilty sense of duty, it bound him to his desk. “I’ve got a ton of work to do. The overheads-”

“Can wait until tomorrow. I know you’re eager to get on with things, Julian, but you’ll be no good to anyone if you don’t take care of yourself.”

“I guess you’re right,” Julian admitted reluctantly. Robert stared at him as if waiting for him to get up and leave. He didn’t move. He didn’t want his dad to see his limp. He felt faintly nauseous at the thought of having to come up with another bunch of lies to explain it away.

Robert put his hands together as if he was about to pray. “Right, better get to it. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck, Dad,” Julian said, and he really meant it. He was, he realised, starting to believe that maybe the change in his dad wasn’t an act put on for the benefit of Christine. Maybe it was for real. The thought pricked him with guilt, but he also drew comfort from it, even hope — hope that as the emotional distance between them closed, he might come to understand his dad, and in doing so, come to understand himself too. Perhaps then he’d be able to put his demons to rest, live his life without fear, have a future with Eleanor. His thoughts returned to Mia, and his hope died like a snuffed candle. He could never have a future, not while she was missing. He was stuck in this moment, this nightmare.

When Robert had left, Julian rose and slowly made his way to his car. He drove to the nearest off-licence and bought a quart of whisky. He drank enough to take the edge off the pain, but not to kill it completely. All morning, he limped around the town centre, peering vaguely this way and that, wandering aimlessly through shops, occasionally swigging from the bottle. In a backstreet antique shop’s window he caught sight of something that brought his eyes into focus. He went in the shop for a closer look.

“Looks like a medieval torture device, doesn’t it?” said the shopkeeper.

Julian nodded. “What is it?”

“It’s a mantrap. Gamekeepers used to use them to catch poachers.”

“How does it work?”

“Wait there and I’ll show you.” The shopkeeper disappeared through a curtain at the rear of the shop, returning after a moment with a thick length of wood. He placed the mantrap on the carpet, carefully pulling apart its spring-loaded steel teeth. “Stand back,” he warned, placing the length of wood’s tip on the pressure-pad at the device’s centre and pushing down. The teeth snapped shut breaking the wood in two. “Just imagine what that’d do to your leg.”

Julian could well imagine. “How much is it?”

“It’s not for sale.”

“Name your price and I’ll double it.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t sell it at any price. These things are illegal. What do you want it for anyway?”

Julian made no reply. As he turned to leave, he noticed a black-bladed, wooden handled knife. He picked it up and thumbed its blade. “That’s a jungle survival knife from World War Two,” the shopkeeper told him.

“How much?”

“Twenty quid.”

Julian handed over the money. “There’s a sheath to go with it somewhere,” said the shopkeeper, stooping to root through a box.

Julian wasn’t interested in the sheath. He left the shop. On the high-street, the pubs and bars were opening their doors. He headed into one and bought a pint. He sat by the window, watching passersby. It made resentment surge up in him to see them going about their business. He wanted to yell at them, there’s a young girl missing and you carry on as if nothing’s wrong. What the fuck’s the matter with you? Am I the only one who gives a shit? Part of his mind knew it was illogical, but he felt the resentment nonetheless. Like an invisible boil, his rancour towards his fellow townsfolk festered and grew as he drank his way through the afternoon. By the time early evening drinkers began drifting in for a post-work pint, his eyes were beady with alcohol and hate. “Sick,” he muttered to himself. “Sick and tired. No good for nobody. Nothing you can do for her. Nothing anyone can do. Nothing, nothing…”

“Excuse me, are you okay?”

Julian looked up blurrily at the speaker. It was a girl about his age, maybe slightly younger. She was slim with a pale face and sharp blue eyes. She had black hair with a purple streak going down her bangs. She was dressed in black too — black leather jacket, black t-shirt, short skirt, tights and boots. He blinked and, for one heart-wrenching instant, he saw Mia. He blinked again, and the phantasm was gone. “Are you okay?” the girl repeated.

Julian’s head bobbed, partly in reply, but mainly because of the drink. “Mind if I sit down?” continued the girl. Julian shrugged. The girl sat opposite him. He stared into his drink, hoping to shut off anymore attempts at conversation. “I’m Nikki,” she persisted.

Julian heaved an irritated breath, lifting his gaze to hers. “Do you know me?” he asked, each word slurring into the next.

“No.”

“Then why are you speaking to me?”

“You seem upset. I thought maybe you might need someone to talk to.”

“Do I look like I want to talk?”

“Yes, I think you do.”

“Well I don’t, so leave me alone.”

“Okay, whatever you say,” Nikki said, but she made no move to leave. Julian took another look at her from under his eyelids as she sipped her drink. Superficially she bore a resemblance to Mia, but under her clothes she was athletic rather than skinny, and her cheeks showed blotchy through her pale makeup. There was a blemish under her right eye that might’ve been a bruise, although it was difficult to tell. A silent minute passed. “I don’t suppose-” she started to say.