Dad flushes puce. I’ve never seen him so mad.
“Go outside with the kids, Jules,” Aiden instructs. He holds out his other hand. In it, he holds a bag of bottles and a pack of juice cartons that somehow survived Dad’s tantrum.
I clutch them to my chest. “What are you going to do?”
“Just go outside with the kids,” Aiden warns, his face a professional mask.
I make it through the door and stop to hear my father’s parting words spat from between bared teeth. “You bring my boys back in here, Juliet.”
It draws me back into the argument like nothing else could. “And what about your daughter, Dad? Huh? What about that little girl that you force to live like a dog?”
“She is a dog. Just like you. Mutts the pair of you, only good for putting down,” he sneers. His suspended hand shakes with the effort of trying to pull it from Aiden’s grip.
Aiden glares at me over his shoulder and I know better than to stay. I get out of there and shut the door behind me. I have no idea of the consequences my words or my actions will bring, but I know that staying under his roof, living with him, is just living to die. He already beats me and Mum, how long before he lifts a hand to Casey too? How long before the boys get caught in the crossfire again? Or worse, what if they become just like him?
AJ and TJ are still where I left them. Casey however is quite cleverly hogtied with the strap of the diaper bag.
“How on earth did you two—?”
“She tried to get away.” TJ grins, clearly proud of their ingenuity.
“Ice cream now, Juju?” AJ asks. A small nervous smile plays at his mouth but his eyes flicker everywhere other than me or the front door. He might not have seen what just happened, but he knows enough to be afraid.
I stare down at the three of them—AJ waiting nervously, TJ watching Casey like she might cause an international incident, and Casey excitedly shouting, “ass cream, ass cream,” into the corridor carpet—and I hope that I’ve done right by them. I’ll sort something out. It’ll be okay but, for right now, I made the kids a promise I plan on keeping.
“Are you ready?” Aiden asks as he saunters casually out of the apartment. He holds his smart jacket in one hand and rolls down his shirt sleeves with the other. I don’t want to ask about what he’s done to Dad, so I kept my mouth shut about it.
“Yes. We are all good to go.” I plaster a fake smile on my face, as much for the kids as it is for Aiden.
“Your work?” he asks looking down at a strapped Casey, her legs up behind her and her wrists attached to her ankles. It doesn’t seem to faze her in the slightest and it confirms something I already knew; those boys learn way too much from daytime TV. Reruns of old westerns from the looks of it.
“Nope. The boys can be resourceful when they need to be.” I release her and prop her on my hip to save our ‘quick escape’ taking thirty minutes. With a breath and a lot of fake enthusiasm, I instruct the boys to“forward march!”
“Clever little cadets, huh?” Aiden comments at my side.
“We’re natural born survivors.” More so than even I realised.
“So, I see,” Aiden confirms. I catch the twinkle of something suspiciously like pride in his eyes. A compliment then? It earns him a far more genuine smile.
“Perhaps I’ll treat you to an ice cream at the marina too, if you are a good boy,” I tease, and enjoy the way Aiden’s laughter fills the entire corridor with a little burst of happiness.
The Marina isn’t actually a marina. Well, not a traditional one at any rate. Years ago, the river Esk played a key role in transporting goods through the industrious Vale. Every major factory had its own access to the river for loading and unloading. But as industry dried up, and the Vale turned to ruin, the river became overgrown and redundant.
When Trevainne industries started buying up parts of the Vale and invested millions in revitalising the area, the northern part of the Vale became fondly known as the Art District. It has a bohemian flair to it that both contrasts and compliments the former industrial setting it now lives within, and the Marina is the heart of its design.
Instead of houseboats or luxury yachts, floating shops and restaurants line the fifty-foot pier. It reaches halfway out across the river and can be seen from the Vale side, lit up and vibrant and everything we are not. I feel like an interloper here, in my food-and-bleach-stained clothing. But when they rebuilt this place as the heart, they gave it kindness too, because nobody looks or judges.
Or maybe they’re just more polite and hide their disapproval?
We sit inside the ice-cream parlour; the kids tucking into knickerbocker glories and banana splits while I nurse a cola float—courtesy of Aiden. In return he scoffs a pistachio waffle-cone that I bought as a thank you.
The freezing cold glass helps numb my palms so I’m doubly grateful.
“So, what happened to Dax?” I finally find the courage, or perhaps the peace of mind, to ask.
“He’ll be here shortly. He’s informing your mother about our current situation, so she doesn’t go home straight from work.”
“Thank God.”
