My Daughter, Audrey [ON HOLD]

The Horrid Memories

The weather outside was vicious for poor Peter.   Lightening streaked across the navy blue sky and rain came down so hard that it stung Peter’s arms and back; his thick raincoat was no shield against this battling climate.   The station was a good walk away, but wasn’t far enough for him to hail a cab.  He plodded down the flooding streets, his shoes filled with cold rain water and his outer garments were soaked through.   When he crossed the railroad tracks and headed to the main office, he saw mates inside the cabin, with their chairs tilted back and white cigarettes balancing on their lips, chortling at his late arrival.   The orange light bulb swinging from the ceiling was no more than the strength of a firefly’s light—it might as well have been left off.  

               Peter entered the cabin, pooling with rain water and huffing heavily.   He coughed behind his balled hand and wiped the water off his face.   He hung up his raincoat and, seeing that there were no seats for him, leaned against the wall with his hands holding his suspenders.  He nodded to the lads and they returned with the same gesture.   “Wot’s up, mates?”

               “Bugger off,” Philip groaned as he threw a dart into the wall.   He hated Peter for only one reason:  Jennie.  Unfortunately, this employee had an unhealthy obsession over Jennie and he had been one of the first to storm out of Too Much Lass when Peter had asked for her hand.   Peter had a weird familiarity with Phillip, but he couldn’t place a finger on the man.

               “’Ow is the ol’ girl, aye?”  Chester, who was equally cruel as the first one, asked with a naughty nod of the head.  He disliked Peter for his work-ethic and because the manager paid Peter more.  “Ya workin’ her every night, lad?”

               Peter pursed his lips, squared his shoulders, and glared at the young man.  “Shut it, or I’ll shut it for ya.”

               Chester bobbled his head in pretend fear.  “Ya annoy me, mate!  Shame the big man likes ya.”

               “Can’t ‘elp it,” Peter said cheekily, cocking his head slightly.  “Enough of this, wot are we all doin’ ‘ere if it’s rainin’?”

               “I don’t know, we all came expectin' it’ll stop.  Now we don’t want to leave ‘cause we’ll get a cold if we walk out there!”  Phillip replied, tugging the dart out of the wall and sticking it in the back of a chair.  He whipped out another cigarette and lit it.   He looked up at Peter and studied him with growing anger.                 “She’s fit ya know,” Phillip came again, urging Peter into joining him in a confrontation.    He enjoyed stirring up trouble, and he knew the other boys would echo him in their boredom.   “She’s fine, real fine.  Ya know, I paid her once.”

               Peter, having never known that one of his worst enemies had relations with his wife, jerked his head up from staring at the ground and focused solely on Phillip’s beady eyes.  “Wot ya talkin’ ‘bout?”

               “That’s her job, ain’t it?   It’s sad that ya busy ‘ere while she’s givin’ sweets to other gents.  Tell me, did she do that ol’ dance before the sweet talkin’?  Or does she give ya a nice deep massage in the shoulders?”  Phillip’s words came out slow and prodding.  A smile slinked on his face when he saw Peter’s muscles tighten underneath his shirt.   He coaxed Peter’s enraging anger a little more, for he hoped that if Peter struck him, he would be fired.   “Come on, lad, spill it.  We’re a bunch of men, it ain’t like we don’t know wot she does.”

               Peter lurched forward but stopped himself when he got the frightened reaction from Phillip.  Peter drew back, laughing softly.  “Gotcha there.”

               “Go to ‘ell, Holmes!”  Phillip cursed, leaning down to pick up his cigarette.  “She’s a used tramp anyway!”

               Peter, who had talked himself into remaining calm, exploded into an uncontrollable fury.  He rushed at Phillip and quickly fitted his hands around his throat.  He strangled him to the ground and pressed a firm knee on the center of his chest.  Spitting and reddening with anger, Peter shouted till his throat cracked.  “Ya bloody sod!  Ya worthless piece of filth!  Ya wanna say that again?  Go ‘head, I’ll kill ya if ya do!  Go ‘head, I wanna ‘ear ya say it!”  Peter delivered two strong blows in Phillip’s face, sending a string of blood from the victim’s lip.

               “I give up!  Fellas, ‘elp me out!  He’s gonna kill me!” Phillip wailed as he wriggled under Peter’s deathly grip. 

               The other two jumped in and grabbed Peter.  They yanked him off and threw him to the ground.  Phillip staggered to his feet and brushed the blood from his lips. He reached into his coat pocket—Peter knew what was coming.  “I’ll cut ya face up!”  Phillip pulled out a razor and clicked it open.  He looked up at his mates and said through an excited smile, “Old him, gents!”  He came at Peter, flashing the shiny blade and laughing manically.   He straddled Peter and held his prey’s jaw still.  “’Ow ya like some pretty lines carved in that pretty face of yours, aye?”

               Peter kicked out, but his arms were pinned and Phillip’s weight was distributive on his chest.  He couldn’t move at all.  He watched emotionless—he couldn’t feel anything.  The only thing that scared him more than the blade was that Phillip looked like his father.  No, he didn’t look like Peter’s father—he was his father.  Peter, for a brief moment, was surprised at himself for not recognizing him sooner.  The scrawny face of the senior Holmes spewed the curse Peter had heard before.   

               Peter, stricken with confusion on how his father escaped his prisoned home and got a working position, distracted him from the cut being split into his cheek.   This was the man that Peter dreaded coming home to—the one he wished to forget forever.  This was Peter’s nightmare—his father had returned, and his insanity was worse than before.