The Story of Me (Carnage #2)(7)

I let out a deep sigh and start to paddle in towards the shore where my cousin, Jackson, is already stripping out of his surf skins. He turns and watches me as I walk up the beach towards him.

“You did good out there, George. You’re getting better every day, darl.” He looks me over with blue eyes that are so much like my own; his mum and mine are sisters. We both inherited our mothers’ eyes, but he had gotten his hair colour from his dad. It’s almost white where it has been bleached by the sun, and he looks every bit the Aussie surfer poster boy; tall, tanned, blue eyed and blond. He was a good-looking bloke, and he had looked after me like his life depended on it these last few weeks I have been in Australia.

He tilts his head to the side as he watches me. “Tough day?”

I squint as I look at him and try to swallow down the sob desperately trying to escape my throat.

I fail.

The sob wins and forces its way out. I drop my board and fall to my knees on the sand.

“Shit, George, stupid question, sorry.”

He sits on the sand next to me.

“Look, I know every day is still a tough day. Fuck, every day will probably always be a tough day after what you’ve been through.” I watch as he picks up a fistful of sand and lets it slide through his fingers as he stares out across the ocean. I wipe my tears and my snotty nose across the sleeve of my skins as I listen to him.

“But it does get easier to bear, George. It never goes away, but you do learn to live with it.” He wipes away his own tears and looks down at me. “You’re doing great. Some days will always be shittier than others, but you’re doing just great.” He drapes his arm over my shoulder and kisses the top of my head.

Jax knows all about loss. When he was eighteen, he had stupidly piled into a car with seven of his mates, including his then girlfriend, Melanie. They were drunk and stoned, and the driver managed to wrap the car around a tree on the five-kilometre journey back into town. Only Jackson and one other boy had survived. He was a grown man of thirty-five now and had a hard time dealing with survivor’s guilt. He’d been in trouble with the police for fighting, drinking and drugs and had ended up in prison for three months, followed by a six-week stint in rehab. By the time he was twenty-five, he had turned his life around. He now ran his own surf school and boat charter company, and worked as a volunteer counsellor at a drop-in centre that helped young people in danger of going off the rails. He had finally settled down with the beautiful Emily. I hope and pray that one day I will find the peace he has.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper and let out a long breath. “I’m sorry if me being here has stirred up horrible memories for you, Jax.” He tightens his grip around my shoulder.

“George, the horrible memories are with me every day. I just hope that in some tiny way, you coming here and being able to talk to me about what happened has helped you, even if you don’t realise it yet.”

I stay quiet. I don’t know yet if I feel better, but I certainly don’t feel any worse than I did leaving England under the horrible circumstances that were surrounding me.



*



I survived my first birthday without Sean, thanks to his flowers and the beautiful letter he had sent me, but by the following weekend, my world had come crashing down again.

Unusually for me, I had slept in. When I turned in my bed and looked at the time on my phone, it was almost ten in the morning, then my bedroom door opened. Marley walked in, and I realised it was the sound of someone knocking that had woken me.

“Big brother Marley, this had better be good.” I knew as soon as my eyes met his that it wasn’t. “What’s wrong?” I croaked with my raspy morning voice.

Marls raked both of his hands through his short, spiky hair; he walked over, kicked off his boots and lay on the bed beside me. I could tell by the frown he was wearing and the creases in his forehead that he wasn’t happy, and I needed to know why.

“You’re scaring me, Marls. What’s wrong?” He pulled me to him, resting my head on his chest. I could hear his heart beating rapidly, and I started to get pins and needles in the tips of my fingers and toes, something that happened when I was getting nervous. Marley kissed the top of my head.

“Some bird’s gone to the papers, saying she has Maca’s kid.” My eyelids suddenly felt heavy and I wanted to go to sleep. My stomach roiled and I swallowed a couple of times to keep the bile rising in my throat from escaping. My tears were instant; I didn’t cry, but they were there anyway. They just appeared. Was that still crying? I laid there and wondered to myself: if you didn’t cry but your eyes still leaked, did that count as crying?

“George?”

“Yes, I heard you, Marley,” I snapped, taking in a big gulp of air and trying to steady my breathing before I attempted speech. “Who is she, what’s she saying?” I looked up at him from where my head rested on his chest; he looked down at me and shook his head.

“Her name’s Amanda Jones. She lives just outside of Manchester, and the boy’s almost five.” I sat up and shook my head; now I cried

“No, no Marley; why, why would she do that?”

“I don’t know, George; I don’t f*ckin’ know, babe.”

My bedroom door flew open and Jimmie walked in, followed by Lennon.

“She’s a lying f*cker, George. I don’t believe a word from either of them.” She threw herself on the bed next to me and gave me a cuddle.