Peeling open one grainy eyelid, Luke rolled over on the bed in his mother’s spare room, and then winced as a hangover the size of a bus hit him. Served him right, he supposed, staring up at the ceiling, which had spun so nauseatingly above him when he’d crawled in here last night, it was all he could do to heave himself out again to the bathroom. He very nearly hadn’t made it before he’d thrown up. The booze he’d purchased from the Tesco twenty-four-hour store hadn’t been one of his brightest ideas. How the hell had he even got here?
His memory unobliging, he sifted through the soggy cotton wool in his head, and was relieved when he remembered that he’d found at least one brain cell and walked, or rather woven, here, leaving his car in the centre of town. He’d had a row with Derek, his mother’s waste-of-space partner, when he’d arrived. He squeezed his eyes shut as his mind started to function, offering up a jagged recollection of their tussle in the hall. Luke had been seething with fury, ready to put the guy’s teeth down his throat when he’d heard him call his mother a silly fucking bitch for letting him in. If he hadn’t been so paralytic he could barely stand up, he might have done it, which – whilst highly satisfying after so many years watching the man disrespect her – would have been pretty stupid given his circumstances. As it was, all he’d succeeded in doing was getting an almighty crack to the jaw.
Running his tongue over the inside of his cheek, which was bloody sore, Luke sighed in complete despair at himself. Christ, he was a mess. Getting plastered was really going to help, wasn’t it? But he’d needed to. He’d wanted to render himself unconscious; fall so deep into inebriated sleep he would forget that he and Claire were finished, despite the ridiculous hopes he’d been harbouring that they might get back together. She hated him. It was right there in her pretty green eyes just as surely as the love she’d once had for him used to be.
She’d found someone else. Swallowing back the sour taste of alcohol and bitter regret, Luke forced himself not to give in to the tears he felt like crying, which really would sum up how pathetic he was.
She wasn’t letting him see Ella. He couldn’t allow that. Right now, his baby girl was his only reason for living, the reason his heart kept beating. Whoever Claire was seeing, there was no way he wasn’t going to have regular contact with his own daughter.
Heaving himself up, determined to try again to talk to her – to get down on his knees and beg her to listen if he had to – Luke hitched his legs over the side of the bed and massaged his temples, then buried his head in his hands, trying to still the nausea still churning his stomach, the throbbing like a pneumatic drill at the base of his skull. She’d moved on pretty damn fast, he reminded himself angrily, which meant he’d probably missed the signals telling him she’d wanted to. But then had he? He hadn’t been able to do a thing right in Claire’s eyes while they’d been living with Bernard: always in the way, which was why he’d figured it didn’t much matter if he went out once Ella was in bed.
Was he there now? With his daughter? Some bloke he had no clue about staying overnight in his bed? How well did Claire know him? Well enough, obviously. He must have been blind.
Pulling himself to his feet, Luke steadied himself, reached for his shirt and tugged it on, then checked his jeans, which he’d ended up sleeping in, for his car keys. He would still be over the limit. The last thing he needed with the police on his case was to get pulled over. Worse, cause an accident and injure someone, or end up making Ella’s worst fears come true and leaving her forever.
He couldn’t let his baby girl down. Watch her growing up from a distance. He had been there himself. He’d tried to tell himself he didn’t care, that it didn’t matter, but it had. He’d felt like a complete failure when his father had walked away. That he wasn’t enough to make him stay. His mother had tried to convince him the failure was his father’s, not his. Luke hadn’t believed her. He couldn’t bear for Ella to feel like that: deserted, lonely, wondering what it was she’d done wrong.
He needed to see her. Needed to take a shower and get his damn act together. Hopefully he could do that and leave without encountering Derek. He really was not in the mood for another confrontation with him, which there would be if he had to listen to any more of his derogatory comments.
Ten minutes later, fresher, though still feeling sick and his head still banging, he hurried downstairs, hoping the lazy git was still in bed, where he usually was until mid morning, and that his mother was on her own so he could say goodbye to her. Apologise, too, for turning up on her doorstep drunk. He soon realised that Derek wasn’t in bed. And whether he wanted to listen or not, Luke couldn’t fail to overhear him in full bullying mode.
‘Where’s the rest?’ he heard him growl from behind the partially open kitchen door.
Luke knew exactly what he was after: his mother’s pension, which the bastard would then piss up the wall, after a visit to the betting shop en route to the pub.
‘There is no more,’ his mother said agitatedly, ‘not unless you don’t want to eat. Give that back.’
Luke pushed the door open, his anger simmering dangerously inside him as he took in the scene before him: his mother, who was no more than five foot four, trying to snatch her purse back; Derek holding it aloft, pulling everything out and tossing anything that wasn’t of value aside before pocketing whatever paper money he found.
Luke’s jaw tensed, his fists clenching at his sides as he watched his mother scrabbling around trying to retrieve her personal belongings. ‘Leave it, Mum,’ he said, his throat tight.
His mother looked up at him, and then at Derek, who glanced dismissively in his direction while grabbing half a slice of toast from a plate on the work surface and cramming it into his mouth.
‘Get up, Mum.’ Luke tried very hard to keep his temper in check as Derek sauntered towards him licking his fingers.
‘Luke, leave it.’ His mother paused in collecting up the few coins he’d left her. ‘Don’t start anything, please,’ she begged.
Luke’s gut twisted, his anger rising white-hot inside him as Derek locked eyes with him, a smirk curving his mouth. ‘He’ll pick it up,’ he said, holding the man’s gaze.
Derek looked mildly surprised for a second, then, ‘Right,’ he said, with a scornful laugh. ‘And you’re going to make me, are you?’
Luke answered with a short nod. ‘That’s right.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Derek sneered mockingly. ‘You and whose fucking army? Move,’ he said, stopping in front of him.
Too close. Luke could see the map of red veins in his eyes, smell the stale booze and the cigarettes he chain-smoked on his breath. His stomach curdled, but he didn’t move.
‘I said shift.’ Derek pushed past him, shoving him hard as he did.
Luke stumbled back, felt for the hall wall behind him. Steadying himself, he wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and watched the man swagger up the hall, totting up the amount he’d stolen as he went. His rage exploded inside him.
‘Luke! Don’t!’ his mother screamed as he took off, following Derek through the front door to see the older man breaking into a run, despite the beer gut he was carrying.
He caught up with him easily a few yards from the house. ‘Say your prayers, you bastard,’ he grated, sliding an arm around the man’s shoulders, yanking it upwards and locking it tight with his free hand.
Derek grasped at his arm, clawed at it with his fingers. Luke felt the man’s Adam’s apple bob in his throat, heard the audible wheeze as he gasped for breath. He squeezed tighter.
‘Luke!’ His mother was behind him, tugging at his shirt, trying to pull him off. ‘Luke! For God’s sake, you’ll kill him!’
He wanted to kill him. He really wanted to. His heart banged against his chest.
‘Luke… please.’ His mother was crying now. Luke heard her from a distance. The drone of a police siren, growing closer; he heard that too. Then nothing but the thrum of his own blood whooshing in his veins.
Through the thick red fog in his head, he noticed curiously that Derek was lying motionless on the grey tarmac, his complexion a strange shade of blue. Then two pairs of hands wrestled him away.