Needing 13 - Johnny Kavanagh

ROOM 139

JOHNNY

Teddy Bear.

Teddy Lynch.

Teddy fucking Lynch.

The name echoed in my head, like a hammer pounding against my skull. That was the person Aiden had been referring to—Joey, Tara, Shannon, Tadhg, Ollie, and Sean's father. The bastard who had tortured them for years. Now, it all made sense—the bruises on Shannon's face, the angry red marks on Joey's face, Tara's tense demeanor, and Tadhg's haunted eyes. It wasn't hurling practice gone wrong, attitude issues, or accidents with Legos. It was their father. Their own fucking father who had turned their home into a battleground, using them as punching bags for his sick pleasure.

I whirled around, fury blazing in my eyes as I confronted Gibsie. His calm, almost detached demeanor only served to stoke the flames of my anger.

"You knew about this?" I bellowed, my voice cracking with the weight of my rage. "You knew and didn't tell me? How could you keep something like this from me?"

"It's not an easy conversation, you know? They didn't want anyone to find out. Do you think I didn't react the same way you did when I found out?"

"When did you find out?"

"The weekend before the bonfire. When I told you I saw her in a bikini, I wasn't joking. But seeing her like that—blue from top to bottom—it was hard. No, it was fucking hell. She begged me not to tell you, and I didn't."

"Why not?" I demanded, more hurt than angry now. "Her father was beating them, Gibsie. That's domestic violence. How could you just stay silent? How could you let—"

"Don't you dare!" he roared, his dark blue eyes flashing with anger as he jabbed a finger at me. "Don't you fucking dare, Johnny. It wasn't my story to tell. Don't accuse me of letting it happen because I swear I'll hit you right now, and I don't give a flying fuck that you're on crutches. Tara's my friend too. She asked me to keep quiet, and I did. It's not my fault you didn't see it or didn't want to see it sooner."

"So now it's my fault?" I retorted, disbelief dripping from my voice. "You think this is my fault?"

"You've found out what you wanted to know, haven't you? If you think a quick call to the Gardaí would fix this, you're mistaken. People who have lived through what they've gone through don't believe in justice or the law. For them, it's just broken promises. Justice is slow for this shite, especially when no one's filed a complaint. What good would a call to the Gardaí have done for them?"

"Help them. Get them out of there. Anything to get them away from that bastard."

"He would've killed them."

"Fuck, Gibsie, don't say that."

"You need to hear this," Gibsie said more gently now, his tone softer but no less grave. "They live with him. He's a drunk, an abusive bastard, a controlling arsehole who sees no age or gender when he's beating the shit out of them. One word about what's happening in that house, and he'd rather kill them than let someone take them away from him."

Shite.

He was right.

I hated it when Gibsie was right.

I tried to lighten the mood, though it felt hollow. "Since when did you get so...philosophical?"

"Tara lent me Winnie-the-Pooh to read, and I swear, that shite isn't for kids. It opens your fucking mind. Especially if you're reading it while smoking a joint. You turn into fucking Aristotle."