Page 71 of Demon
The usual darkness didn’t cross his eyes.
“It was reckless, Demon,” Demon not ‘son’, my telling off wasn’t far away, he was just building up to it. “But I understand. And you were right. Thrash knew what Ciara was to you. Even if she doesn’t feel that way. But be careful with her. No good can come of it. She’ll only get you in more trouble.”
I stared at him blankly. Normally that would have been a direct order, to drop the girl, find someone else. And normally I would have followed blindly. I tipped my head, searching his face. His eyes were dull, almost like he was defeated by this thing already. Resolute.
“What are you trying to tell me to do?”
“I’m not. Not this time. Just know, when they don’t love you back. It’s the worst you’ll ever feel. I know, Demon. Your mother …” his voice trailed off, his face conflicted. But whatever internal conflict he was warring with, the next bit, I wasn’t expecting. “Your Ma, Demon. She didn’t ever really love me. She wanted someone else. And she got that someone else, in a way. I’m not your father.”
“What the fuck, Dad?”
“I’m not. I’m not your Dad.”
I stared at him, convinced that it hadn’t been his lips moving, that I hadn’t heard him right.I’m not your father. The words ricocheted round my brain, and instead of slowing down, they grew bigger, snowballing. How?
“I don’t understand?”
“Your Ma had an affair. She’d always set her sights high. Guess she was looking to upgrade,” he looked at me pointedly. But whatever cryptic message was in those words, I couldn’t figure it out. Probably because of the words running through my head.I’m not your father.
“What? Da…I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
He sighed, his shoulders slumping.
“Simon is your father.Wasyour father.”
I shook my head. No. No. This was insane. This couldn’t be happening.
“I don’t get it.”
“Technically, I’m your uncle,” Ste shrugged again.
“How?”
He quirked an eyebrow, and I scowled back. If the fucker was going to mention bees and birds, I was punching him square in the mouth. Wouldn’t be as bad as punching an uncle rather than a father. Fuck. This was all kinds of messed up. Si had been killed by his own son. My cousin had killed my father. No. My brother…half-brother… had killed my father. Fuck, this was going downhill fast.
And all these years, all these years, he’d make me work for any tiny tidbit of affection. He’d always criticise, tell me I wasn’t good enough as he moulded me into a monster, only fit to do his killing. And all I’d ever wanted was to please him. So, I had done everything. Killed and maimed, even when I didn’t think it was the right thing to do. And with each punch I threw, each blow I landed, a tiny bit of my mind went with it. Now, I was too damaged to be loved. By my father, or my uncle, or Indie, whatever the fuck Indie was now. Or by Ciara.
“So why fucking tell me now? Why tell me at all? Why not just leave me to think it was you? Is this some last bit of fucking torture before you go?”
I could feel rage sparking, the fuse lighting.
“Sometimes it’s better not to know the truth, Dad. Fuck. I can’t even call you that, now, can I?”
“I’m sorry, Demon. I just couldn’t go to the grave without you knowing.”
“Why? So that you die with your conscience clear?”
“No, son. No. It’s not like that.”
“Just go. Go on, Fuck off!”
The fuse had burnt in its entirety, and I felt the tingle, the explosion building. But when the bomb went off, I couldn’t see anything other than a blackness.
Charging down the stairs after him, I wanted to throw that punch, but he was out into the street and in his whore girlfriend’s car before I got anywhere near him. Tori Pulled away, the man I had called Da all these years in the seat beside her, his eyes fixed straight ahead. The fucker didn’t even look back. Didn’t care. Was he ridding his conscience or ridding himself of me before he died?
The bike caught my eye, a slither of sunlight reflecting off the aluminium that I had kept pristine since the Viking had given me the bike. Had he known? Is that why he had given me Si’s bike? His father’s…our father’s bike? A father he had killed in a blind rage.
That blind rage. It possessed me, too. I hadn’t felt my fingers wrap round the cold metal crowbar; I hadn’t even realised that I was moving towards the bike until the first smash of metal filled the garage. And then I couldn’t stop. Smashing at the bike as hard as I could, destroying it, the metal tearing and screaming under the assault.
