Page 12 of Bozo

Aged 16

“I need you to be on your best behavior,” Dad snarls as he grips my shirt in his fist, pushing me against the sitting room wall. “We need this money. I need this money. If I lose this, we’re all dead,” he spits, his eyes wild and filled with fear and hate.

That hatred is directed at me. He hates that I’m able to fight back now. I haven’t always, but I learned that I needed to be able to protect myself. Not just for me but for Grá too.

I grab hold of his wrist and use all my power to rip his hand from me. “What the fuck do you need?” I grunt, pushing him away from me.

He forgets that I’m no longer the small nine-year-old he could bully around to get his own way. No, I’m a lot bigger and smarter than that.

“Do the fucking job I tell ya, freak,” he snaps. “You don’t, and we’re all fucked.”

I laugh. He’s a useless bastard. Always has been. He’s a drunk, and a violent one at that. Not to mention, he loves to gamble, and most of the time he uses money that he doesn’t have.

“You mean you are fucked, right?” I ask with a raised brow.

“Connor,” Mam sighs. “Please, son, no arguing. Just one night.”

She’s getting worse. The cancer has ravaged her body, and over the past few months she’s deteriorated a lot more than any of us had expected. She doesn’t have much longer left.

“Fuck,” I hiss as I turn back to my dad. “What do you need?”

The triumphant smirk on his face is enough to make me want to snap my fist into his jaw. But I refrain—barely. Mam doesn’t need this shit. “You’re playing a no-limit stake poker game in Palmerstown.”

I raise a brow. “Oh? With what money? You’re broke.”

That motherfucking smirk of his grows wider. “That, my son, is where you come in. I know you’ve got money hidden. I finally found it.” He reaches behind the sofa and pulls out the duffle bag that I know has about three-hundred-thousand Euro inside. That fucker, he’s been searching through my room.

“Connor,” Mam says quietly. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “But we need the money for the treatment.”

I swallow hard. Christ, he’s even got Mam in on his bullshit. We all know what the doctor said. The cancer is too far advanced. They doubt any treatment will work. And yet my dad is adamant on trying to push Mam into every fucking drug trial going, despite the fact that it’s making her worse.

I clench my fists, feeling the rage boiling inside me. But I can't lose it, not now. Not with Mam watching, her eyes pleading. I fucking hate that look in her eyes; the sorrow, the pain, the hurt. She’s been dealing with Dad for too fucking long.

"Fine," I growl through gritted teeth. “I'll play, but you’re not coming."

Dad's face contorts with anger. "Now listen here, boy?—"

"No, you listen," I cut him off, stepping closer. "We both know you'll piss all the money away before the first hand is even dealt."

He looks ready to explode, but Mam's weak voice stops him. "Let him do it, Craig. Connor's good with numbers. You know that."

Yeah, and that’s what’s gotten me into this shit. Dad’s been using my brain since I was a young boy and he learned that I was good with numbers. When the doctors later told us that I have an eidetic memory, my father nearly jumped for joy. Dad’s used me as much as he could. He’s made millions off me and pissed it all away.

Dad's nostrils flare as he glares at me, but he knows he's beat. "Fine," he spits. "But you’d better not fuck this up."

I snatch the duffle bag from him. "I won't. Unlike you."

As I turn to leave, Mam catches my hand. Her skin is paper-thin, her bones jutting out. "Be careful, love," she whispers.

I squeeze her hand gently. "I will, Mam. Don't worry."

The drive to Palmerstown takes almost an hour. I can’t believe I’m doing this shit yet again. I thought as I got older, this shit would stop. But then again, I should have realized that my dad would never fix himself up. He’s always going to be a bastard.

As I pull up to the address, I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what's to come. The building is a rundown warehouse on the outskirts of town. Perfect for an illegal high-stakes poker game.

I grab the duffle bag and make my way inside, nodding to the big, muscular bouncer at the door. The smell of smoke andwhiskey hits me as I enter, along with the low murmur of voices and the clinking of chips.

I spot the table immediately—five men, all older, all with the look of seasoned gamblers. One chair sits empty, waiting for me. Damn, my dad sure knows how to set it up to take the money off the high rollers. All of them are watching me with narrowed eyes and barely concealed eagerness. They want to take my money and leave me broke. They’re sorely mistaken if they think that’s how tonight is going to end.

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