Tortured Souls (Rebels of Sandland 2)

“You mean his dad didn’t want that. Bloody hell. I knew he was a bastard, but I didn’t realise he’d shaft his best mate like that. Sorry, Harper. No offense.” Ryan dropped his gaze into his lap in embarrassment at his outburst. I hadn’t taken him for the shy type.

“None taken. What do you know about the Lockwoods?” My own intel was limited to what Brodie had told me. I’d never really been in their circle at school. My friendship with them came later, when we were old enough to forge our own social lives. Mine had been an extension of Brodie’s. I had no idea what had gone on before then, but I knew they were held in high esteem by everyone in Sandland. Not as high as the Renaissance men were now, but high enough.

“I know they aren’t to be trusted.” Ryan turned to Emily. “I bet if we looked deeper into their shit, we’d find more than we bargained for. Maybe we should start digging. See what corpses they’ve got hidden under their patio.” His eyes snapped back to me. “Jesus. I’m sorry.”

“Again, no need to apologise. I can handle you using the word corpse. What I can’t handle is my brother’s death being used as some sort of cover-up.”

Emily reached across the table to take my hand in hers. I didn’t like the contact, but I gritted my teeth and accepted it.

“No one could handle that,” she said with a sad recognition in her eyes. “I know better than anyone how much that hurts. Like I said before, you’ll get honesty here. It’s how we work.”

“Yeah, I know. I heard about what happened with your dad at the community centre. Sorry about that.”

Emily turned to Ryan and sighed. He reached over and gave her hand a squeeze, taking her attention away from me, thank God.

I hadn’t been at the community centre when her dad had faced his trial by public humiliation. But there were enough people there who had been, and the footage was all over the internet for everyone to see. Guys dressed all in black, hiding their faces with bandanas and hoodies, had kept her parents prisoners on the stage whilst a premade video played out to the audience, telling them all that Alec Winters, Emily’s dad, had been laundering money through businesses in Sandland for some pretty shady people. They also exposed his part in his son’s death.

Apparently, he’d picked his son up after having a few too many whiskeys and then crashed the car. His son died right there in the passenger seat, and Mr Man-of-the-people had used an accomplice to move Emily’s brother’s body into the driver’s side and left him there. His own son, and he’d deserted him when he needed him the most in favour of his political career. A career based on lies, seeing as he also had a long-term mistress and a daughter hidden away in the capital. I suppose, when you really thought about it, Emily’s life was as much of a train wreck as mine.

“We’ve all got our ghosts to contend with. Some of us more than others,” Emily said, breaking through my reverie.

“Ghosts. I’m seeing a lot of those recently.” I clamped my mouth shut. I needed to get out of there before Emily’s soothing voice and sympathy had me spilling all of my secrets.

Emily stood up and went over to her handbag that was lying on the kitchen counter behind us.

“I think we’re more alike than you care to admit. I didn’t like talking to people about my brother, Danny, when he died. I didn’t see the point. It wouldn’t bring him back. But for some reason, I kept these. They weren’t much use to me, but they might help you.”

She handed me a bunch of leaflets. I thumbed through them, seeing grief counselling, ways to deal with the loss of a loved one, and other titles that all blended into one. She continued making her point as I flicked through them.

“I never could stomach seeing a counsellor, but I did try some of the online forums and chats. If you prefer chatting online as opposed to face-to-face, it might help.” She reached forward and pulled a leaflet up from the pile to show me. “This one has a chatroom for teens and young adults that have lost a sibling. It’s probably the best of the lot. I used to spend quite a few nights letting off steam in there. The guys in that chat, they get it. They don’t judge, and they sometimes say stuff that’ll help. It’s no miracle cure, but it’s a chance to have a voice, to be heard. I think you need that, Harper. You need to be heard.”

I sat, dazed, turning the leaflets over and over in my hand.

“I’ll give it a try,” I said, looking up at her.

I stood up and walked back towards the door. Then I stopped and turned to face them both.

“I’ll pay for the damage. I shouldn’t have done that.” It wasn’t a sorry, but it was a start.

“Kieron’s probably already fixed it by now. Don’t sweat it,” Ryan said, opening the door for me to leave.

“Harper,” Emily called out, making me stop on the path and turn to face her. “We’re here for you. Anytime you need to talk, just come over. Even if you want to ramble a load of nonsense, we’ll listen.” Then she lurched forward and grabbed me in a hug. I took it, but I didn’t return the sentiment, just left my arms hanging limply at my side as she clung to me.

“Anything,” she reiterated as I pulled away.

I nodded absent-mindedly and then wandered back over to my car. I was a walking zombie in an apocalyptic post-Brodie world, where Renaissance men and their girlfriends hugged me and offered me tea and sympathy, and people I thought were life-long friends treated me like complete and utter shit.

I had one foot in the mortuary and one still stuck in the fucked-up place I used to call home.

Sandland.

Half the population lived hand-to-mouth, while the other would cut your hand off if it meant they could buy another car to go with the ones that sat gathering dust on their massive driveways. The class divide had never been so wide. But I was a class all of my own.

No family, apart from my nan. I pushed envelopes full of money through her door most weeks; whatever was left over from the cash-in-hand jobs I did on the building sites I walked every morning.

No home, unless you counted the derelict high-rise covered in shit, piss, and graffiti that’d made Finn, Sandland’s own Banksy, have sleepless nights. A cold hard floor and a sleeping bag were my home now. Even the rats didn’t show up anymore, preferring a better class of shithole than the one I lived in. But it kept me hidden, and I didn’t get soaked in the rain. Well, not much, as long as I stayed away from the broken windows when it really poured down.

As for my friends? I’d thought I was a rich man a few months ago. A man who has friends he can count on, that he can trust with his life, is a rich man indeed. Turned out I was as piss poor in that respect as I was financially. And that was why I spent most days watching them, trying to see if there was a hint of remorse from either one of them. Those days, when there was no work at the building sites, I usually camped out in Sandland. Chose one of them to watch as they went on their merry way, enjoying their shitty lit