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PROLOGUE
BEAST
“You will never amount to anything. You are just a scrawny little shit. You are nothing but a drain on mine and your mother’s lives. Each day you breathe, each day you whine and moan about needing to be fed, I pray for the day that I wake up and you aren’t around anymore,” my father sneers, stumbling over his own feet. It’s his usual speech when he comes home from the bar. My mother, full of depressants, sits at our small table in our apartment, smoking, her eyes void of any emotion. She just sits there staring blankly at the wall. Only on the rare occasion does she acknowledge me.
It wasn’t always like this. When I was 8, my sister had gotten sick and then died within days. My parents never told me what the cause was; they didn’t speak about her, and they didn’t speak to me at all. The only time they spoke to me was like now, when Dad was drunk out of his mind. I have been living like this for five years. The only way I get a decent meal is from sweet old Mrs. Neal on the floor below us. She often calls me in when I pass. She has washed my clothes and has fed me once a week since she found me hunting through the bins. She would make me read while she washed my clothes.
“Eat that, boy. It will help you grow big and strong,” she says as she places down a bowl of stew. I didn’t protest. I would eat anything that was put in front of me. It was often the only meal I got, so I practically shovelled it in. “Easy,” she chastises. “You will choke.”
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and reach for a bread roll as she takes a seat opposite me. “May I?” I ask. I learnt to always ask politely. Mrs. Neal gave a swift whack across the knuckles when I snatched. She would say that even in desperate times, we remember our manners.
As we eat, we hear a loud bang come from above, followed by the normal yelling and screaming. I pause my eating, looking at the spoon in front of my mouth. Mrs. Neal stands up and shuffles her feet across to her old stereo. She presses play and as the classical music begins to play, she turns it up a little in an effort to drown out the sound of my parents.
“Eat,” Mrs. Neal orders. I nod and continue to eat while Mrs. Neal talks over the sound of the music and my father beating my mother. I never understood why he did it. She didn’t fight him, and she didn’t argue. She barely said anything. The only noise she used to make were the screams or sobs of pain from his fists.
Once we finished eating our stew, I looked at the clock, not wanting to go home. If Dad wasn’t passed out from the drink, then I would be on the receiving end of his anger.
Mrs. Neal brings in a cake with a candle on it. “Happy Birthday!” she sings, placing it down on the table.
“You remembered?” I ask, smiling.
“I sure did. Now it’s only a vanilla sponge and jam, because well, I couldn’t afford the frosting, but I had to make you a cake for your big birthday. Today you become a teenager, which means you are one step closer to becoming a man.” She beams. “Now, blow out the candle and make a wish,” she coaxes.
I close my eyes and make a wish that one day I will be big enough to get to stand up to my dad.
At 19 years old, I’ve left school and moved in with Mrs. Neal. I worked at the local market and paid her rent. My parents didn’t ask where I was going, or care that I had moved in downstairs at 15. After one night of my father using me as a punch bag and taking it too far—far enough that he broke my arm in three places—Mrs. Neal took me in. Money was tight, and sometimes she had to cut back on the food. Plus, my clothes always came from thrift shops, but I didn’t care. My life was a million times better than when I lived at home with my parents. We would still hear my father coming in drunk, still hear him beating my mom, but I could put it out of my mind because I had Mrs. Neal.
Walking back home with two full bags of groceries, I was smiling. My boss had wanted to throw out these items, as they were on the turn, and they couldn’t be sold. I said I would take them, as Mrs. Neal would appreciate it. She could make a large pot of stew that would last us a week.
I unlock the door to the apartment and walk in. “Hey Mrs. Neal, you will never guess what I got,” I say as I shut and lock the door. I turn around and see Mrs. Neal asleep in her armchair. “Mrs. Neal,” I call out, but she doesn’t stir. I place the groceries down and walk over to her. I gently touch her hand, but it’s ice cold. “Mrs. Neal,” I say again, my voice breaking in my throat. “Mrs. Neal, please wake up,” I rasp. She doesn’t.
Mrs. Neal died in her sleep aged 89. I was the only one to attend her funeral; she had no family, and no friends. She had a small amount of money that she’d saved to get cremated, and she’d left me her apartment in her will, along with all of her belongings. I didn’t care about any of that. I would rather have her back.
Sat alone, drinking a beer that I stole from work, I hear my dad hitting my mom again. I look up at the ceiling, hearing the yelling and the thud of her body landing on the floor. I stand and walk out of the apartment and up the stairs to theirs. I don’t knock. Instead, I kick the door open, and it swings, hitting the wall with a loud bang. I walk in and my father is stood over my mom with his fist clenched, ready to hit her again.
His gaze comes to me, a smile on his face. “What’s the matter, son? You decided to come home since you killed that nice old lady?” he sneers.
I storm towards him, swinging my fist and knocking him to the ground with one swing. I am a lot bigger than I used to be. I am now twice the size of my father. I would often exercise at work, lifting heavy boxes and sacks of potatoes. I don’t stop beating him. I continue to pound my fists into his face until his body is lifeless. His face is unrecognisable, now a bloody mess. I stand, my chest heaving as I turn to my mom who is just watching, her eyes wide.
I take a step towards her and she flinches, shuffling back. “You are just as bad as him, allowing it. Suzie had a lucky fucking escape dying, at least then she didn’t have to live through the shit you and him put me through. You can stay here and rot in fucking hell,” I spit before turning around and storming out of the apartment. I never saw them again, although I did read in the local paper that my father died following a violent attack in his home. My mother had given a different description to the police. It’s probably the only thing she has ever done for me in my entire fucking life.
CHAPTER ONE
BEAST
We are all sat around the table, discussing the latest problem; Belle. “All Bobby said was to collect a package. He failed to fucking mention that it was a human package and also that it was his fucking daughter,” Hawk rants.
“It’s almost like it’s written in the stars.” Cash smirks, taking the piss. I flip him off.
“I think it’s more fucking disturbing that you all you know the ‘Beauty and Beast’ story so well,” I snap back.
The brothers all laugh. “I couldn’t give a shit whether her name is Belle, Cinderella, or fucking Dave. What we have on our hands is another fucking problem that we don’t need. Did Bobby not say why there are people wanting her? Why she is all of a sudden in fucking danger?” Ghost asks.
I shake my head. “No, he just mentioned all that he has done for the club, and that he has never asked for a favour, but now is that time. You requested a visit to ask him?”
Ghost nods. “Of course I fucking have. I am due to go there tomorrow morning and I am taking the package with me. I want you,”—Ghost points at me—“Hawk and Spider with me. If she is a target, I don’t want to risk that target spilling onto my fucking back. We go in the truck, and she keeps her hood up, or she wears a fucking hat. Either way, we keep her name quiet. Any of the officers ask who she is, Beast, she’s your ol’ lady,” Ghost orders.
I smirk. “Ain’t going to protest that, Pres. I got eyes.”
