“I didn’t leave though, Maria. He let me rot in fucking jail. You both did. Where is she?” I grate the words out and she flinches, her eyes widen.
“You don’t understand…it was terrible. He was terrible.”
“I know he was terrible; I lived it.”
“But it got worse.”
“Where is she, Maria?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice cracks, a sob rips out of her. “I looked everywhere, Owen. I was going to get help when she left, and you were gone, it hit me. I realised the mistakes I made. I realised what I should’ve done. But it was too late. I was too late.”
She chokes on the words, tears streaking down her face.
“No one’s seen her since she walked out two years ago. She …vanished. I even went to the police. Filed reports. Made calls. We had search parties. It was like she never existed.”
I fall into the wall.
Missing.
Gone.
Disappeared.
Dead.
Everything runs through my head, the what ifs. Cooking up the worst visual representation of what could have happened.
I rub my face. I rub my eyes. I clench and unclench my fist.
“Please, Owen, please come in. Let’s talk.”
“Is he here?”
“No. Long gone.”
“Gone where?”
“I don’t know, but I think he likes to hang around in a pub, the Old Crow on Lansdown Road. But please, Owen. He’s not worth it. He doesn’t know anything. He’s too busy drinking himself into an early grave.”
“You have ten minutes to tell me what happened, then I’m gone.”
“Please, Owen, please don’t walk away. I can’t lose you, too.”
“You lost me two years ago when you didn’t fight for me.”
Just like I lost her.
I walk through the small 18thcentury pub. The ceiling’s low, with dark wooden beams running along the top. The walls full of black and white pictures of soldiers, mixed in with crosses, medals and coats of arms.
I watch him.
He’s surrounded by friends, laughing and joking like nothing’s wrong. But I see it.
He’s wasted away. His face is hollow, skin clinging to sharp cheekbones, and there’s a grey tinge beneath his eyes that no amount of laughter can hide. His body, once solid and strong, is slumped and frail—shoulders curled inward like he’s caved in on himself. Years of alcohol have ravaged him.
And yet, he still wears that same evil crooked smile—the one that hides the devil that’s hidden behind his broken façade.
“Hello James.”
