beat her, as he’s done too many times before. But he holds back, leaning in until his face is close to hers. “Now you cook me eggs and steak and you wash my clothes. And there was never no blood. Nothing. You hear me?”
“Ja. I hear you.”
He smiles but she can’t see no softness in that face. Handsome like his dead father, and just as sick in the head. He disappears into the bathroom and she hears him splashing water, then he goes to his room, slamming the door after him.
Yvonne closes her eyes, praying for God knows what. When she’s done she stands and carries the clothes to the bathroom and soaks them in the tub, the water stained red by the blood.
Vernon feels it coming as he lies on the bed in the gloom, chilling, listening to Motown. The panic rising in him, making him restless, afraid.
Before he was shot everything he did was about power, about imposing his will on people weaker than him. But since he came back from that terrifying blackness things have changed. There is a fear in him now. A fear that he could just evaporate, that the darkness could claim him.
He sits up and clicks on the lamp. His room is neat, the way he likes it, nothing out of place. Just a bed and a table and a wardrobe. No pictures on the wall. Nothing. Doesn’t need that shit. Fucks with his head, which is already crammed too full of pictures. Takes a deep breath. He sits for a bit, just breathing, telling his nerves to stop shouting at him.
After a few minutes he is feeling a little better. Loose. His hands not shaking no more. So he stretches out on the bed and then makes the mistake of allowing his eyes to close.
And there they come, the images of his father, right here in this bedroom, with his tattoos and his missing teeth and his rancid smell, like a backed-up drain. Coming at him with the broken bottles and the lit cigarettes.
Vernon’s little-boy skin smoking black as his father holds the cigarette to his stomach, hand over his mouth and nose, shutting out any screams. Not that his mother hears. Deaf she is, to all this. Blind, also, to the marks on his body and the blood between his legs when his father is done getting his jollies.
Vernon has to fight hard not to scream. He sits up, telling himself it is all in the past, man. His rancid fuck-up of a father long dead. But his heart is like a boot trying to kick open his breastbone and the sweat is heavy and rank on his body.
He hears his breath coming in gasps as terror drives him from the room. He opens the front door of the house and stands battling to breathe. Catching dust and diesel fumes from the buses and taxis, the roads busy even this early on a Sunday morning.
The streetlamps—the few that work here in Paradise Park—still burn, dropping green light down on the weekend workers hurrying to the buses and taxis. He ducks back inside and flops down on the sofa and channel-surfs the TV, not seeing the succession of darky politicians and those frosty bitches on CNN.
He can’t sit still and he’s up again and goes back outside, where it’s lighter now, the streetlamps dead, and grabs the garden hose and starts washing his car. Wipes a smear of Boogie’s blood from the driver’s seat and hoses the exterior, trying to calm himself with work. But his throat is still tight, like his father’s hand is on it, throttling him.
Chapter 10
Exley wakes at his workstation, keyboard denting his cheek, the strobing monitor agitating his eyes through their closed lids.
As he sits up and squints at the wireframe that still dances, he can’t stop himself from sliding back along the timeline to the moment when Sunny came to him on the beach, desperate for his attention.
But now, in his fantasy, he hands the joint to Shane Porter and he turns to Sunny and sees her pointing to the little sailboat, bobbing in the waves like some cheesy Hollywood model shot from pre-digital days, and he hauls the boat to safety and gives it to his daughter
“Ja. I hear you.”
He smiles but she can’t see no softness in that face. Handsome like his dead father, and just as sick in the head. He disappears into the bathroom and she hears him splashing water, then he goes to his room, slamming the door after him.
Yvonne closes her eyes, praying for God knows what. When she’s done she stands and carries the clothes to the bathroom and soaks them in the tub, the water stained red by the blood.
Vernon feels it coming as he lies on the bed in the gloom, chilling, listening to Motown. The panic rising in him, making him restless, afraid.
Before he was shot everything he did was about power, about imposing his will on people weaker than him. But since he came back from that terrifying blackness things have changed. There is a fear in him now. A fear that he could just evaporate, that the darkness could claim him.
He sits up and clicks on the lamp. His room is neat, the way he likes it, nothing out of place. Just a bed and a table and a wardrobe. No pictures on the wall. Nothing. Doesn’t need that shit. Fucks with his head, which is already crammed too full of pictures. Takes a deep breath. He sits for a bit, just breathing, telling his nerves to stop shouting at him.
After a few minutes he is feeling a little better. Loose. His hands not shaking no more. So he stretches out on the bed and then makes the mistake of allowing his eyes to close.
And there they come, the images of his father, right here in this bedroom, with his tattoos and his missing teeth and his rancid smell, like a backed-up drain. Coming at him with the broken bottles and the lit cigarettes.
Vernon’s little-boy skin smoking black as his father holds the cigarette to his stomach, hand over his mouth and nose, shutting out any screams. Not that his mother hears. Deaf she is, to all this. Blind, also, to the marks on his body and the blood between his legs when his father is done getting his jollies.
Vernon has to fight hard not to scream. He sits up, telling himself it is all in the past, man. His rancid fuck-up of a father long dead. But his heart is like a boot trying to kick open his breastbone and the sweat is heavy and rank on his body.
He hears his breath coming in gasps as terror drives him from the room. He opens the front door of the house and stands battling to breathe. Catching dust and diesel fumes from the buses and taxis, the roads busy even this early on a Sunday morning.
The streetlamps—the few that work here in Paradise Park—still burn, dropping green light down on the weekend workers hurrying to the buses and taxis. He ducks back inside and flops down on the sofa and channel-surfs the TV, not seeing the succession of darky politicians and those frosty bitches on CNN.
He can’t sit still and he’s up again and goes back outside, where it’s lighter now, the streetlamps dead, and grabs the garden hose and starts washing his car. Wipes a smear of Boogie’s blood from the driver’s seat and hoses the exterior, trying to calm himself with work. But his throat is still tight, like his father’s hand is on it, throttling him.
Chapter 10
Exley wakes at his workstation, keyboard denting his cheek, the strobing monitor agitating his eyes through their closed lids.
As he sits up and squints at the wireframe that still dances, he can’t stop himself from sliding back along the timeline to the moment when Sunny came to him on the beach, desperate for his attention.
But now, in his fantasy, he hands the joint to Shane Porter and he turns to Sunny and sees her pointing to the little sailboat, bobbing in the waves like some cheesy Hollywood model shot from pre-digital days, and he hauls the boat to safety and gives it to his daughter
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