Granite Grit (Fighting's in the Blood #1) (28 page)

Chapter 69

Fate:

  Returning to normal existence was so difficult. The torture of my life over that time, will forever cast an unwelcome shadow and define the man I’d become. The reason why I had to complete my journey, was to find the man that ruined my life, the so called Eidolon. My Father.    

  Ever since Magill informed me about his new address inside the interview room, I took notice, willing to do whatever necessary to come within his sight. A phantom who couldn’t be found. Since leaving Aberdeen, he became number one on the wanted list by the Scotland Yard, MI5 and G2. Lived off the grid, away from civilisation. The address I sent Magill on the evening of the fight, was the venue in Dundee.

  He had a massive riot-squad on standby, while he got a chopper escort from London. Needless to say, he was rather pissed-off after realising I’d played him.

When informing Mr Dean in our meeting that Davie Rhodes was The Eidolon, he was only too happy to help with his capture. Having previous history with The Stable who disfigured him, he felt it fitting he should help me. Now, having to face the reality my Father would never be found, I only had to get on with life.

 
I’d killed a man and prepared to kill another on the same night. My face had become unrecognizable in the mirror. Afraid of the reflection that gazed back at me, afraid of the company of my own kids. Terrified of their vision of me. Was it the same as I thought about my Father at that ag
e
?

  It’s a funny thing, life. Has a habit of repeating itself. If your childhood was spent growing up in front of junkies or drunks, there's a good chance it’ll be passed down to the next generation. In my case, growing up with a beast turned me into one. The reality is, no matter what route through life I’d choose, I was always destined to walk my Father’s path. Doesn’t matter if it happened now or in twenty years, the end-result would be the same. We shared the same blood and with it the same demons. I had to change the path, lay a new one for my kids.

  Spending the following months making amends with May, hiring a lawyer, countless letters were exchanged for eight months. Trying to convince her I’d become a reformed character, but May knew what lurked beneath the surface, lingered around for the next outburst.

  After all I’d done to keep her away from the A&E and nursing, she returned to a role in the cancer unit in Aberdeen. Her Mother took the role as childminder.

  Eventually, time earned me enough respect to be blessed with my kid’s company on weekends. Wasn’t until eight long, agonising months I’d get the sight of my two children, Jess and Joe Marks, Junior. The happiest I’d been for as long as I can remember. Overrun by pent-up emotion and heartache, tears streamed down my face, cuddling both of them with all the love I held.

  After putting them through a rollercoaster of mental damage, I’d promised no more pain in their lives. They needed a decent upbringing to end this recurring nightmare in our family.

  The regret at my family's suffering, added to the regret I had for Mom’s suicide, and Micky’s murder. Nevertheless, I got on with things as you have to in life. Using the blood-money, I paid off all outstanding debts on the house and moved back in.

  Three months before, without my knowledge, May moved out, accepting a temporary home in Stonehaven. Despite how much love I had for Katie, I broke all contact. Even though the sight of her lovely face forever swirled around in my imagination, I had to break her loose. Couldn’t let her get involved with me, because that man will always lurk beneath. After all, she was a good person at heart, she didn’t deserve a beast like me. I would always think about her and the life I could have had with her.

  Me and Tim did what we said, got out the game, entering a partnership together, working in the scrap trade, combined with house-removals. Work was tough going at times, the money decent and the hours were flexible. It suited us both.

  Two years later, past my mid-thirties, all relationships were healed. Choosing to stay off the booze, scared of what might happen once the nectar hit my lips. But, I had a heavy smoking habit of twenty a day.

  Boxing was put behind, never to surface, or so I thought. The gym equipment in my garage sold-off and replaced with a five-door family saloon, finally gaining my licence legally.

  One Sunday afternoon, the back-garden filled with Dawn, Tim, their twin boys, Margaret, my kids and me. The barbeque smoked while we exchanged stories and laughed while playing with the kids. Me and Tim shared our own story, although most days we wished it could be forgotten. Managing to accept a lot of my past by now, moving on, being genuinely happy for the first time in years. Able to wake with a smile and sleep with a weightless conscience.

  “Joe, there’s somebody at the door.” Dawn yelled out the kitchen window as she washed some dishes in the sink.

  “Aye, I’ll get it.” Who the fuck was coming round at this time on a Sunday? Maybe it was May. Closing the kitchen door, I took a look out the living-room window, seeing a tall man stand with his back to me, hands by his side and a comb edging out his back pocket. A long, grey ponytail in a bobble hanging down the back of his vintage, denim jacket. Who the fuck is this? Opening the door, an arm flew in, gripping my neck, along with a couple of clunky steps inside my house, forcing me back.

  “Alright, boy?” It couldn’t be? His big-boned, wrinkled, callous face right in front of me, for the first time in fifteen years. That same effect on me again: fear. That same impassive look of pure evil. Stood up on my tip-toes, my back up against the bannister.

  The blood-vessels in my eyes burned, face turned bright purple. Attempting to scream out for Tim’s help, only made his hold tighter. My desperation causing my hands to grab his wrist was pointless. “What’s wrong, nothing to say?” He tipped his head sideways in a sarcastic motion. Playing with me, as he always had. My inner rage longed to be realised, I’d waited all these years for a glimpse, and now couldn’t mutter a word, leaving me gargling as I struggled to speak.

  “Whcht’ I fukkc’ you doooin’ here?” Managed to mutter out a question.

  “Came to say hello, son!” How fucking dare he call me his son. Struggling with his grip, longing for release, so I could inflict my revenge.

  “Seen your last fight, boy.” I immediately took notice, stopped struggling.

  “What?” He loosened his hold, just enough for me to speak.

  “I was there, watching.” The glimpse of my Father in the basement that spurred me to finish off The Reaper, had been real.

  “Fuckin’ prick.” His hold on me was impossible to get out of.

  “That's no way to speak to your old man! I never got the chance to tell you about your brother?”

  “Who?”

  “He used to be a fighter, like you. We called him The Reaper.”

THE END.

Published in 2015 by FeedARead.com Publishing 

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