Page 7 of Mayfly

I smile back, but it’s all superficial.

Women weren’t the only reason I’d chosen Greece.

“Enjoy your homecoming,” Anki says with a cheeky wink before slipping into the private entrance ahead of me. My colleagues and I are nothing but strangers now. Faceless masses amongst the cold gray of winter in London.

The four of us march in a staggered line, each towing an overnight bag behind. Out of sight, we weave through the fluorescent white hallways of the airport. Bypassing the queues of travelers we slip through the private priority line like ghosts.

Approaching a body scanner, I shed my navy knee-length coat and place it in a bin. Next is my cream knit sweater, revealing the brown leather holster that criss-crosses my back. I take out my pistol and eject the cartridge before placing them both separately in another bin with my cell phone. After pushing my bag along in the next tray, I step through the scanner and collect them on the other side.

“Your passport, sir,” the singular customs officer asks without looking up; his voice as mundane as this whole experience. I hand it over, its pages marked with the stamps of places I’d rather forget. “Welcome home,” he concludes, pushing my passport back to me, the last step in this pointless formality because I was never going to be refused entry. The British government knew I’d be arriving before I did.

London is not just another pin on the map. It’s a return to a place I’ve spent the last seventeen years running from.

It’s where I learned that home is not always a sanctuary.

That a father’s touch is not always kind.

And it’s in spite of it that I built a new life, brick by brick.

This job became my salvation—a place where control means protection, not pain.

Once in the main concourse I spot Anki in the distance as she disappears into the crowd like the two hours we sat side by side never existed.

My phone buzzes from the inside breast pocket of my coat and sends a jolt straight to my gut. I slip it out; the screen illuminating a string of numbers and letters that only make sense to me. It’s Issak—Anders’ right-hand man—speaking silently from the depths of the network.

Outside, I step up to the appropriate spot on the curb. A taxi pulls up and I climb into the back seat.

“Where to, mate?” the driver asks.

“Mandarin Oriental,” I reply with a thankful grin. Anders may be scarce with dishing out information, but at least Issak knows how to pick a good hotel.

“Any plans for the rest of the day?” The cabby attempts small talk as he pulls away from the curb.

“To get myself to the closest pub.”

“To the Oriental? That’ll be The Tattersalls. But you’re gonna wanna head down Sloane Street to The Gloucester, instead.”

“Cheers.” I smile at him in the rearview mirror before looking back down at my phone and the new correspondence from Issak, only to have my slight perk in mood destroyed by four words:Stay vigilant. Be ready.And the rush of heightened awareness that was bred into me through a childhood spent navigating the minefields of my father’s temper, notches up to eleven.

I guess I won’t be having that beer after all.

Leaning the side of my head against the window, I look up at the haze of the city. It’s not as thick as Los Angeles, but there’s more history to it. More stories in its buildings. My mind wanders with the familiarity of it all until it stumbles overmystory:

The force of my father's fist when he burst my eardrum.

That scratched up DVD I found.

And hushed whispers shared through a broken fence.

Whilst I'm still not pleased to be here, a fancy hotel room overlooking Hyde Park should make things a bit better, I guess.

It’s not the first five-star hotel I’ve ever stayed in, though. The Raffles in Singapore, and La Momouina in Marrakech will always be front runners, but standing on this particular balcony and looking out towards the east of the city, is the perfect, “Fuck you for always choosing him over me,” to my mother.

Surely the human you gave birth to should be your number one priority, but all my father ever had to do was grab her by the back of the head, pull her face close to his, and stare at herwith his dark-brown eyes, and she’d cave. Every goddamn time. And what made it worse was that split second where I could see in her expression she might change her mind. But then he’d kiss her, and all thoughts of me evaporated like I was a stranger in the room.

I lost count of the number of times he made me watch; made me sit in the corner while he fucked her in front of me, beating her back until it was black and blue like he was telling me I needed to learn to shut up and love the pain, just like she did.

I hate him so much for that and what it did to me.

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