Page 31 of Van Cort
He snorts. “I don’t need your money. It’s not going to be that easy.”
“What then?”
“I don’t really know. To fuck something up? To take something you want and watch you deal with how that feels? Maybe I’ll do what you did twenty years ago, see how you like it.” I stop and turn back to him, frowning. “That’s it, Rhett, you’ve got it. It’s my turn now.”
“Fuck you, West.” His eyebrow cocks, and a low, bitter-sounding laugh trickles out into the air. “We’re not children anymore. Get out.”
He laughs. “And where would you like me?” I walk out of the room, heading for anywhere he’s not. “Back to the office? I suppose I could. Or over to fuck Andie again?” I look back at him, sharply, overly irritated with that response. He widens his arms, mock bowing. “Come on, brother. You know you’ll enjoy it. This full-time grown-up crap doesn’t suit you. And you must have known this would come. After all, you’re me, aren’t you? Worse really. Or so you thought.”
I need some space from him, and I might just be able to think of a way out of this situation. “There isn’t a way out of this,” he calls. “Everything you think of, I’ve got an answer to. Every move you make, I’ll counter.” Fuck. “You could go tell her now, I suppose. Go on. Pick up the phone.” I stare at the table I’ve arrived back at, willing the phone lying there to make a call for me. “It’s the sensible thing to do. Tell her I’ve already been inside her so she can be free of this before it starts.” Sensible. But now a small part of me, despite the surprise, is churning inside with possibilities.
Slow footsteps come into the room behind me again, and I can’t help but listen to the similarity and remember. “You owe me this, Rhett, and you know it.” I swallow and lift my gaze to the window instead of doing what I should, almost nodding. “You owe me reparations.”
CHAPTER TEN
BEFORE
RHETT – AGE SEVEN
The two boys ran like the wind was lifting them from the ground to help.
Faster and faster.
Together.
The house loomed behind them both, with an angry father bellowing their names. They didn’t know what they’d done – never did, but this time they’d both taken a beating.
Rhett looked sideways, as West tried getting past him, and found another gear. No way was he letting West get to the boathouse first, despite the fact that they were running away.
He veered left towards the woodland track, cutting the corner of the vast lawn so he could reach the gravel first, but a loud shout of pain cut through the sound of his own feet.
Looking back, he saw West on the ground, rolling and tumbling down the hill. Limbs clashed with each other, and he could see untied shoelaces flinging around. He snatched a glance back at the house to see where their father was. He was walking towards them, all fuming and fury and noise, a bottle in his hand.
Rhett ran over as fast as his seven-year-old legs could manage – faster than running away, faster than they’d ever run before. He grabbed hold of West’s hand and started pulling him up and along, not caring for the cries of pain still coming from his brother. They had to get away. Together. There wasn’t any other option now that Father was home. Maybe they could sneak back in tonight when it was dark, or maybe they’d have to stay on the island in the old cabin. He didn’t know. He just knew he had to get them somewhere safe.
West cried the whole way. He limped, barely able to put his foot on the ground. It didn’t matter to Rhett. He just kept pulling and dragging until they were at the boathouse, and he was able to push his brother into the small boat. He pulled the cord to start the engine – pulled and pulled, but the ripcord wouldn’t ignite the engine. It just kept whizzing and then nothing.
Rhett turned to look back for his father as they drifted.
So close now. Too close.
“Help me,” he said to West. “He’s coming. Help me pull.”
West sniffed back his tears and dragged himself to the back of the boat. They both grabbed the cord. They pulled and pulled together, desperately trying to make it work, and eventually the engine roared to life.
The boat immediately cut through the water, sending heavy waves back towards the shore, and Rhett powered them towardsthe only safety he could think of. He held the tiller hard, with both hands, trying to keep hold of the direction like he’d been taught, but the speed, his age, and the waves were causing the boat to zip and swerve.
Finally, as the shore was left behind, he got the hang of it again.
It was quiet after that for a while. They didn’t speak. They let the dull hum of the engine guide them to what Rhett hoped was a good hiding place. He’d only steered this boat once before, but he remembered how. West might not have cared at the time, but Rhett memorised every moment of old Charles – the groundsman – taking them fishing. He knew that one day they’d need an escape, and today was that day.
“Why does he do that to us?” West asked, sniffing. Rhett shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t know why, but that was the way their father had always been when he was home. He hurt them. Said nasty things. “What did we do?”
“I don’t know.”
“I thought he’d like the pictures we did.” Rhett did too. They’d both spent a long time trying to make the house look like it did. They’d even drawn their mother on the pictures, or what they thought she looked like. They didn’t know. There were no photographs of her in the house to copy.
They were happy, colourful drawings, drawings of what a family should be like, according to Nanny Julietteand the fairy tales she told them. But their father had ripped them up in front of them and shouted. He shouted so loud, as he threw the pieces of paper at them, that they both cowered in the corner of the room. He called them names and said it was their fault, and then he hit West so hard that the table full of Father’s drinks crashed over as West collided with it and then the wall.
