Page 14 of Parker
Weeks pass, and we live around each other, not speaking. Each day, I scour the paper and websites for jobs and rooms to rent. Unfortunately, potential employers and roommates crush my hopes when I tell them I’ve been recently released after serving ten years in jail for manslaughter.
***
It is an early summer evening in late May when things change. My mother is out on the back green hanging washing on the line, when a group of youths attack her, holding her at knifepoint. They march her up to the flat, ransacking the drawers and cupboards.
Lost in my music with my earbuds in, they burst into my room. A skinny, dark-haired boy stands at my door, his face coveredin yellowed spots and scars where he’s scratched the skin raw. A creepy smile spreads across his face as he approaches me, calling over his shoulder to his friends. “Lads, check out what we have here. This could be fun.” He waggles his eyebrows, and my skin crawls.
After spending a decade living with criminals, I’ve learned to be prepared. I keep the baseball bat hidden between my mattress and headboard. Having a weapon is a habit that is hard to break, and right now, one I’m glad to have.
“Come on, gorgeous,” he says with a sneer, pulling at his crotch with stubby fingers. “Going to show me a good time?”
Cautiously, I feel for the handle of the bat. His friends appear in my doorway, and he turns to them. Taking the opportunity of him being distracted, I swing the bat with all my strength, and it hits him across the back. He sprawls onto the floor, star-fished in front of his crew. The cowards run, grabbing their grubby mate and legging it down the stairs. Brave until someone fights back; pathetic.
That night, my mother asks me to stay. She is terrified of living alone, especially in this area. Before my eyes, she recedes back to the hollow, terrified woman I remember from childhood. The one that cried over my father and accepted his piss poor love.
Though my encounter with the gang has solidified my living arrangements, it destroys my sobriety. In prison, I attended an alcohol support group every week without fail, using my time detached from society to better myself. Tonight, after the attack, I allow myself to disappear into the bottle, desperate to wipe the experience from my mind. A quick trip to the liquor store is all it takes to find relief, one bottle at a time.
The next morning, I wake with a thumping headache and a belly full of regret. On knowing this couldn’t happen again, I find the nearest group and attend that very day. The walk to the old church, only one kilometer from my mother’s apartment, iscalming. It feels good to be getting back on the wagon straight away. I won’t be letting the demon of drink capture me again.
Only six of us sit around in a circle. There are a few empty chairs. Rhona, a tall, lean woman, is the leader. Her red hair is pulled back, and she wears a floor-length flowy-style blue dress secured with a scarf. She scans the room with bright-blue eyes and smiles genuinely at us all. As she opens her mouth to speak, confident footsteps echo around the hall.
I look up to see the most stunning man walking across and sitting on a chair directly opposite me. He’s breathtaking, more magazine pin-up than inner-city alcoholic. Dressed exquisitely in a sharp suit and perfectly pressed white shirt, he looks ready for any boardroom debate.
“Apologies, Rhona. I got held up at work,” he explains.
“No need to apologize, Joel. I’m glad you’re here. We have a few new members today, and it’s always good to hear from someone like yourself.” Her eyes twinkle as she speaks to him. She must be twice his age, I think, rolling my eyes at her open flirtation. But the exchange is kind of cute. He smiles sweetly, accepting the compliment without comment.
The meeting progresses as they all do, each person introducing themselves and telling us why they are here. I keep my part short, simply saying that I had recently fallen off the wagon. The group mutters sympathetically. Joel then stands up and does his introduction. I find it hard to believe he needs to be here at all. He’s so self-assured and articulate as he speaks, explaining how alcohol had become his comfort blanket in the evenings while working late in his high-pressure position in his family’s business. How Rhona has supported him for the past eighteen months, and he is now over one year sober. He emphasizes the importance of being a team and how we should all be here for one another, even just as a listening ear. When he finishes, the group gives a round of applause, and I smile athim like a lunatic. He gives me a half-smile back, then returns to speaking to Rhona. But before he turns back, his eyes linger a beat too long. He saw me.
My stomach growls hungrily as we leave the hall. Joel is walking beside me, and he chuckles under his breath. “Anyone would think you haven’t eaten?” he says.
“I haven’t,” I tell him. “Completely forgot, to be honest.”
“That’s not good. You must eat.” My skin prickles with his scolding. “There’s a cafe across the road. We can get a coffee. They have the most amazing chocolate cake.”
“Seriously?”
“Sure, why not? I don’t bite. Well, not on the first date, anyway.”
My eyes widen at his boldness.
He laughs. “Come on, what did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t.”
“Okay, I didn’t. Let’s go eat.” He takes my hand and links it through his arm. We walk over to the small, dingy cafe in silence and find a table inside by the window. It’s a typical box room, with plastic tablecloths and microwaved food, but the coffee is alright, and the cake is as good as Joel promised.
Two hours later, we are still nursing our second cups. We’ve talked about everything and anything—he is the most incredible person I have ever met, open and honest about his family’s business in Glasgow and his fight with alcoholism. I hang on his every word. He makes me feel at ease. I tell him about my current situation and the time I spent in prison. The night my father died, and my role in the fiasco. My mother’s attitude toward me and her sudden change after the youth’s attack.
He sits silent, listening as I prattle on. His eyes hold mine, and when I pause, losing confidence in telling my story, he reaches across and squeezes my hand to encourage me to continue.
The server approaches our table and clears our cups away. “We’re closing in ten,” she says.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Half past eight,” she responds, but continues her work.
“Oh my, I didn’t realize the time. We’ve been in here for hours. I better get back. My mother will wonder where I am.”
