He was obviously muscle for Bruce. He also appeared to think he could easily take King. That’s why it surprised us both when King walked right up and elbowed him hard in the side of the face. I heard bone crack, and the man stumbled into a wall with a pained grunt. Then King brought his foot down on the guy’s shin. The brute let out a strangled cry, but both of us were already gone, rushing to find Elaine.
The house was silent, which somehow felt more frightening than if she were crying out in terror like we’d heard her on the phone. We entered the kitchen to find an older man standing by the sink, casually using a dishcloth to wipe the blood from his hands. He looked to be in his seventies, his hair almost completely gone. His face was lined with deep wrinkles, and there was a scar that ran just above his right eyebrow. He looked fit for his age, his build stocky, the only sign of weakness a little bit of pudge around his middle.
His eyes came to King, and his gaze narrowed. He wasn’t laughing anymore. There was a coldness about him that chilled my bones.
“You’re too late,” was all he said. Dead voice. Dead eyes. Black heart. I knew all this within seconds of looking at him.
King was still, so still, and he wasn’t looking at his father. It confused me at first, but then I followed his gaze to the floor. Time ceased to exist. There on the expensive stone tiles lay Elaine. She wore her favourite peach pyjamas – her favourite peach pyjamas, which were drenched in blood. She wasn’t moving, wasn’t breathing, but I refused to accept she was dead. She looked so…small.
No.
No.
No.
I didn’t even realise I was shaking my head until King dove for his father, his hands going around the older man’s throat. I couldn’t hear over the sound of my heart thundering in my ears. Couldn’t move. So I stood there, frozen in shock, as King started to beat his father to a pulp. Bruce lay in a couple of punches, but he was old, and his strength was no match for King’s. I was about to scream when I saw him pull a gun, but King was quicker, knocking it from his father’s hand and sending it sliding across the floor. He drove a final punch into Bruce’s skull, and the man fell limply to the tiles. The heavy thud was an awful sound, and I thought I heard bone crack once more. A deep, all-encompassing shudder ran through my body. King’s chest rose and fell rapidly as he stared down at his father’s lifeless form.
I remained frozen, not understanding how this was happening.
“No, no, no, no, no,” he began to mutter, running his palms down his face as he shook his head. “What have I done? What have I done?” King repeated his words over and over, his entire form shaking.
He went to his mother and dropped to his knees, pulling her into his embrace. “No, Mum, wake up. Wake up.”
Tears filled my eyes and ran down my face. This was all too much. Too much. This couldn’t be happening. I didn’t know what to do. What could I do? Should I call the police? Should I not call the police? I felt like calling Lee, but I wasn’t sure I should be involving anyone else in this situation.
King’s father had just killed his mother.
And King had killed his father.
It was a Greek tragedy come to life, and I felt like I’d suddenly stepped out of reality and into a dream. I’d woken up this morning to the sun shining. It had been just another ordinary day, but not anymore. I wanted to rewind the clock so I could erase it all. But that wasn’t possible. King was crying now, holding his mother to his chest and just letting the tears flow. The sounds of his weeping filled the room. A cold sweat covered my skin, and my heart was thrumming a mile a minute. My hands were shaking. I took a few steps forward until I was beside him, and dropped to my knees. He didn’t even register my presence until I put a hand on his shoulder.
He stopped crying.
Silence filled the room.
He turned his head.
He stared at me in horror and realisation that I’d been a witness to everything that had just happened. His face contorted, and so many emotions flickered past I could barely count them. Shame. Pain. Loss. Fear. More shame. So much fucking shame I could barely breathe with it. He reared away from my touch like it had burned him, his mother’s body slipping from his arms as he stood, backing away.
“King,” I said, a crack in my voice. “Oliver.”
He began to shake his head, his eyes huge with fear as he took in the scene. And then he was gone. It took me a moment to get to my feet and run after him. I dashed from the kitchen, down the hall, and to the front entryway, where Bruce’s muscle still lay crouched on the floor in pain. I ran outside, looked up and down the street, but he was nowhere to be seen.
I returned to the house, searching each room to make sure he wasn’t still inside. The place was empty. I walked back down to the kitchen, my gut recoiling at the sight of Bruce and Elaine’s bodies and all that blood. I’d never get it out of my mind, would never be able to wash my memories clean. I had to do something, had to act. I saw the phone on the wall and knew calling the police was the right action. King beating his father was self-defence. He wasn’t in his right mind. Bruce Mitchell was a criminal. Bruce was the one with the gun, the one who killed Elaine. Any jury in the country would be able to see that.
I walked to the phone, picked it up, and started to dial nine-nine-nine. I was on the final nine when I heard a weak cough and looked to my left. My heart soared when I saw Elaine’s eyes flutter open and her chest move up and down with her breathing.
She was alive!
There was so much blood I wasn’t sure how it could be possible, but it was. I hit the final nine on the dialling pad.
“Nine-nine-nine emergency services, how may I help you?”
“I need an ambulance,” I croaked out. “I need an ambulance right away.”
Part Two
After
Sixteen
London, six years later.
My hands were shaking.
All I was doing was holding a piece of paper, and my bloody hands were shaking. I was standing by the open window, trying to get some air, but it wasn’t working. I felt woozy. I had to sit down. I’d already read the letter three times. So I read it again.
Dear Alexis,
I hope you don’t think my letter intrusive, but I found you through the agency you run and some of your past modelling work. My name is Lille Baker, and I’m an artist. I work in a travelling circus, the Circus Spektakulär. We perform all over, but right now we’ve stopped to do some shows in London.
I’ve wanted to send you this letter for weeks, but I held out. I had to wait until we were close enough for you to come. You’re probably wondering why I didn’t just email you. Or call. Letters are sort of a lost art form now, right? But what I have to tell you is of such great importance that I felt an email would be too impersonal. A call too abrupt.
I apologise. I’m going off topic. So yes, the circus.
It’s run by a woman named Marina Mitchell. Perhaps you’ve heard of her? Anyway, Marina has a brother. His name is King, Oliver King. He stays with her most of the time; other times, he wanders on his own. I suppose you could say he doesn’t really have a home. King carries around a picture of you, Alexis. It was taken six years ago on a beach in Rome. Do you remember? He treasures this picture, goes crazy if anyone tries to take it.
Why is the picture so important to him?