The Endless Depths Of A Stolen Soul - Chapter Three.

3

The room, for Gavin, spiraled with more chaos than usual that night. He was lay, spread outward with loose and flimsy drunken limbs, and a gaze which struggled to fixate upon the crusted paint upon the ceiling. He’d averted his eye from the window when the alcohol bent shadows beyond comprehension. The trees grew taller, and his blurred vision offered the seeming mirage of something towering them too. The full blight of the alcohol’s force cracked like a cinder-block against his temple. Its poison danced about his veins and intertwined itself with blood. He wandered, amongst other things, whether the room would slip loose and topple around him. It seemed precariously hinged like playing a skipping rope with shuttered eyes.

“Why would he ever try to harm anybody? Let alone his father?” He muttered with soft slow speech. The vowels amongst the questions more emphasised than the consonants.

In his perception, Oliver admired his father with a strength that might rival the greatest of patriarchal bonds. But to bludgeon him? Split his head wide and leave him comatose amongst the sea of his own fluids? Swimming amongst a crimson ocean of blood and mucus which rusted about the remains of his hair? That was far from the Oliver which Gavin had befriended and, whether it be the alcohol that tainted all sense or the surprise that dipped him head-first into a profound state of denial, something rejected the courtesy of adding up.

Admittedly, his time with Mr Turner was limited. Condensed in almost its entirety to the occasional awkward exchange of greetings about the semi-detached household’s cramped entrance hall. The old man would often interrogate Gavin. In a jovial manner but despairing to tear a confession. He held a particularly large stake in his son’s love life but, again, in a manner that suggested more of a loving concern than a manipulative grasp. What could the man have ever done to warrant a beating the likes of the one that Ruth described? Let alone to leave him abandoned afterwards? He recalled, in that pirouetting room, a moment in which the old man offered him a brief ‘man to man’ talk one Saturday evening. The conversation regarded Gavin’s absent father. Mrs Turner had left abruptly, so the single father could sympathise with the trials and tribulations of a single parent household. In fact, he’d even dated Gavin’s mother for a short period. Granted, the relationship was limited to a pair of evening rendezvous to ‘The Green Man’ during Gavin’s early adolescence. The bar was under separate management at the time, though much of the décor was unchanged. In Gavin’s jaded and intoxication fuelled recollection, the first night seemed to go well. One frosty morning later, Gavin recalled conversation between himself and Oliver en-route to school in high hopes of the blooming relationship. He joshed, during this 9-day period, that they’d become brothers. His glee was met with little response from Oliver.

“Tough crowd” he giggled. Nudging Oliver with an elbow and struggling to cloak his grin.

The ignorance on Oliver’s behalf was innocently construed as the fury of a possessive teenage mind, by Gavin. Oliver was always secretive over his father. This reticent nature was considered by many as a deep projection of over-protectiveness. A territoriality. A projection of the nature of their single parent household exaggerating into a tight-knit kinship. Mr Turner seemed to haul the hefty workload of two. Thus, presumably to Gavin, retrieving twice the admiration. Young Oliver wouldn’t allow a single utterance against his father, not for a second. He was far from a fighter and despised the brutish violence of playground combat. Though, an outlying exception to this lay in the name of slander toward his father. Often, he’d simply shut down any nonsense with hurled strong words which never be repeated in the environment of a classroom. Often, such venomous language would warrant a speedy visit to the Head Teacher’s office. In which, in efforts to avoid a call to his father, like a federal informant, he’d dish the dirt on all his class if necessary. Gavin did wonder, then and later, where Oliver developed such a vile vocabulary.

There was one incident in particular, that stood out above the rest. The single time he’d witnessed his old pal utilize violence. Violence, to add, which was leveraged to astonishing effect. To delineate with context, word at the time began to spread about class regarding Oliver’s single parentage. Such circumstance was fairly rare for Chamomile, particularly at the time, and co-incidentally became the ice breaking topic which brewed the childhood alliance between Gavin and Oliver. For himself and Oliver, the instance of single parenthood was a hot-button topic of rancorous ridicule. Sadly, at the point of the incident in question, allegations swirled that painted Mr Turner as a “Bender”. The rumour derived from the lips of a boy named ‘Alphie’ and became much a point of pleasure for his juvenile audiences. He’d bark his unsubstantiated lies, like a circus ringmaster, with expert showmanship and an understanding of the narrative his audience craved. They soaked the theory up as gospel and fabricated fictional accounts of Mr Turner’s so-called appearance about ‘Rosewater’s’ row of ‘Gay Bars’. Before long, rumours had swirled beyond control and gathered a sense of its own steam, then quickly escaped the incubator of the playground and into the sly whisper of parents about the gates. This adult equivalent, Gavin noticed, bore a similar level of maturity that the children demonstrated beside the hopscotch spots. The whispers became viral, and murmurs inevitably reached the unsuspecting ear of Mr Turner himself. Obviously, and justly, taking him by utter surprise one cloudy September evening.

“Of course not!” He chuckled. “Such a ludicrous allegation!” He continued with a smile woven perfectly between his cheeks. Though, it did tremble somewhat to reveal some brief appearances of a scowl beneath.

“Where did these lies originate?” He continued. Packaged with a dry laugh, clenched teeth.

The parents deduced it to be within the metal green gates of the school. Most likely, amongst the babbling of the students. On Oliver’s passage out of the school, he was swiftly ambushed by his old man and met with a barrage of questions regarding these tales. Initially the boy feigned bafflement, with botched effect. Promptly earning a gentle clip around the back of his skull and chuckle targeted toward the direction of other parents. It was only the boy that understood the subtext of the soft clap. And it was only his heart which spluttered, then began to race.

“We’ll have to get to the bottom of it tonight then” He warned.

Boy, the events of that night riled Oliver as he made a stomping return the next day. With clenched fists so tight the nails in his palms almost drew blood and quivered with the pressure, he hunted Alphie. Like an apex predator, almost sniffing for the scent of bullshit, he scoured every corner of the playground until he laid eyes on the culprit. Then, without the briefest spark of hesitation, he fucking wailed on him! The poor liar’s lips split in two places, but the pummelling continued. Gavin recalled the ‘cracks’ as the worst part. Rather than the ‘slaps’, they suggested contact on bone. They were cacophonous and wince inducing. Accompanying them, came the sound of splitting skin and stammered breath. Oliver knew the precise places to beat, and Alphie didn’t stand a chance.

“You don’t talk about my dad like that again! You understand me? Fucking cunt.” He screamed with a cracking voice. Heaven knows where Oliver learnt those words, Gavin and others were perplexed at the definition of the latter. Profanity of that nature was reserved for the occasional appearance once or twice a year, but Oliver continued to fill the quota for three years. With each connection of his fist, the children learnt a new obscene adjective and the message was received. After his predictable suspension, Oliver was never seen to raise his fist again. Then again, he needn’t have to.

Mr Turner and Gavin’s mother’s relationship deteriorated quite swiftly, and almost as instantaneously as it began. After that point, she refused to discuss the man beneath her roof. Oliver’s visits were limited and met with some restrain, and extended periods of Gavin’s begging. It was much to his dismay. The reasoning provided was always the same. “’he’ would need to pick the boy up”. The prospect was enough to secure a mostly permanent banishment from Gavin’s home until Oliver was old enough to make his way back on his own. The sudden resentment Ms Clark held toward Oliver’s father was a persistent point of mystery for Gavin. Mr Turner was known to occasionally slip one’s foot inside his mouth on the worst of occasions, so Gavin presumed this trait was the case for their disastrous final date. He ran many scenarios in his childhood mind, hypothesising what the man must have said, but struggled to imagine the misconstrued statement that would lead to such hatred.

Gavin’s final meeting, at least socially, came in the constricted confines of the Turner family lounge. Uncomfortably, he’d perched himself toward the edge of the lime green sofa which was stained at several points. It did not match the tone, nor era, of the furniture that surrounded it but was in a similar state of disarray. Mr Turner sat on the other edge. The summer heat thieving the room of all air and exaggerating the aroma to one more pungent than it would have otherwise seemed. His wheelchair was haphazardly folded near his feet, and a silence cut deep. Gavin, internally, begged for Oliver to make his way downstairs in desperation that it would tear him from the awkward embrace of the room. His friend was upstairs, preparing for an evening at “The Green Man”. Little did they know, it would be their final outing. No matter how much Oliver seemed to admire him, Mr Turner had a habit of breathing through croaking grunts which tore the sanity of those about him. The groans became more inflated in his advancing age. Gavin couldn’t say anything, what could he say? He guessed that it may have been in relation to his condition. Perhaps some form of respiratory illness which contributed to binding him to the rusting metal folded at his feet. A few sideways glances were exchanged, not to the pleasure of either party. Until Mr Turner sighed and shattered the silence.

“What pub?” He snarled. Almost causing Gavin to jolt from his chair from shock at its sudden and cutting nature.

“Green man. The local”.

“Ah, picking up birds?” Turner returned in an almost instant. A sly smile brewing, revealing his off-yellow teeth stained by the very brand of beer as the can he wielded in his right hand. The budding grin was discomforting, and Gavin immediately flung his eyeline to the ground then chuckled softly with a reluctant shrug of his shoulders. A silent “maybe”. Good enough, but an exchange which made the young man beg whatever Lord would answer for his friend to arrive soon and rescue him from the situation.

“You’re not one of them, though, are you? You know what I mean, don’t you?” He continued. Gavin’s legs tightened, and he fiddled with his fingers. Then offered no response, surrendering to the overpowering sense of silence encapsulated within those four narrow walls. It was like Gavin could no longer breath. Especially upon noticing the piercing glare to his right. It was a set of seconds that lasted weeks. Until the door to his side swung open, and Oliver appeared.

“I’m ready” He announced. One lace still untied. He was forgetful like this. It was charming, for Gavin. As though his mind always wondered astray, and he was never bestowed the ability to keep up with its astounding pace. The loose lace, immediately clocked by both men, and met with a subsequent snigger and two nods toward his feet. Mr Turner perched downward, quickly and suddenly, to which Oliver jerked backward and clattered against the wall. There was a strength to it, with pictures balanced by loose hanging nails wobbling upon impact and swaying rhythmically. A reactionary response Gavin had never seen before. An expression of anxiety that was immediately assumed to be a random jolt of shock toward a nearby sudden movement. It was disguised behind a humorous self-teasing chuckle from Oliver that allowed the comfort for Gavin to erupt into a howling laugh of his own.

“I’m such a dickhead” He sniggered. Sharing a sideways glance at his father, ensuring a smile was on that man’s expression too - relieved to realize it was.

The pressure, for Gavin in that drunken night years later, grew tight to pinpoint a motivation for the attack. The factors of each story clawing into recollection, alongside a plethora of others. It was too early to diagnose, but a reality began to gradually emerge that was beyond his prior comprehension. One hidden and buried but was beginning to unearth with increasing glimmers of truth. Though, shrouded in mystery, Gavin’s anxiety levels pulsated beyond belief. Accompanying with the imagery of Mr Turner’s brutalised state, began to make him nauseous. So, he leapt from his couch, but found himself hunched against the cold glass of his window. Fixated on the trees, with a feeling that he was watched. He was lucky enough to not catch rumor of the figure that slid into the lake, his intoxicated mind would certainly strain to grasp the pair in succession. There was only one thing that did connect his racing mind with reality. The hunch that Turner couldn’t have suffered a shocking fate without provoking it, somehow. Breadcrumbs left through each memory in the night of barraging remembrance presented an anger behind the warmth of his grinning smile. He felt as though something darted between the distant trees, he began to see a man that alienated his mother in the space of a single night or led his passive friend to pummel his nemesis to a blooded pulp. A man that, in the space of around five years, led another so timid he jumped at a mere sudden movement to one that would perform an assault so vicious as the one in question. Something, like the trees ahead of him, refused to add into logical sense.