Bad Life

There must have been some scar etched into my body even then—one I’d long since accepted as part of me, though most people recoiled when they saw it. Eight years ago, George had branded me with the word in faded red ink in the most private of places, and it still lay there between my legs.
After returning to England and spending nearly ten years tracking those boys on the top floor, I’d had countless lovers yet never told a soul about this tattoo. In fact, I’d never explained it to anyone since it first appeared. Feeling a strange kinship—and a flicker of fear—toward Christine, I finally spoke.
“You saw what they did to my body.”
Christine’s expression remained unreadable.
“In Bluebell they raped me, forced others to rape me, filmed it as some perverse commemoration, tried to graft me to animals, left me to drown in the swamp, whipped me, slapped me, burned my clothes…”
I stared blankly at my legs.
“They murdered my friend.”
“…”
The cigarette between Christine’s fingers burned down to the filter. Startled, Christine flicked the stub into the ashtray, lit a fresh one, and inhaled. I watched the faint smoke curling from the spent butt.
“But that wasn’t why I killed them. Not because they murdered my friend… or branded me… or raped me. Those weren’t my reasons.”
Only after I killed Hugh did I realize the blade had itself died. When I killed George, I never once thought of James, who’d been so brutally slaughtered. It wasn’t like that. When I killed those boys, it felt as if…
“I was making a wager. It felt like winning some sick game.”
“…”
“At first I put up small stakes. Even if I lost, the worst I’d pay was a whipping. I wasn’t seeking revenge for the cost I’d paid—I was just thinking how to win the next round. I still think like that.”
“You’re wrong.”
Suddenly Christine spoke. I flinched and looked up from the ashtray. Her calm face had twisted into an expression of barely restrained anger; it felt like her rage was directed straight at me, chilling my blood. I remembered a low voice I’d heard more than ten years ago:
“This time is special. Raymond is special.”
What about my predecessors? Had they also had nothing left to lose? Could those boys have resisted as I had? I recalled one ugly confession Dave Watson had sobbed:
“He was just… a normal kid.”
In the cathedral at Chadstone where evening mass had begun, I’d stood before Alex and Melissa Moore’s gravestones, numbly tracing their deaths. The gruff old sexton’s voice echoed again:
“Come back around this time every year.”
The photograph of Christopher—the impossibly ordinary boy training for a swim meet—still nestled in my wallet. And another photo, vivid even «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» after a decade: the boy in tight tee and jeans, perched on a man’s knee in that den of sin.
When Christine spoke, I jerked back as if struck.
“You were victims too. That ‘game’ was just them letting themselves use you as they pleased.”

“…”
“You killed them, but you’re still not free of them. Right? If it were a game, wouldn’t it already be over? Are those boys holding you even now? Hugh and George are dead, yes—but what about Jerome and Simon? Are they still playing with you? What wager did you make this time? Is Jerome still raping you? You say it wasn’t revenge—if it was just a game, shouldn’t it have ended long ago?”
“…”
“It’s not a game. It can’t be. You were victimized. You were. You killed those boys? Ridiculous.”
In a mocking falsetto, Christine sneered:
“If it was a game, you lost. You were and still are Hugh and George’s little pet.”
She crushed out her cigarette, slipped into her camisole, and pulled my driver’s license from beneath the strap. She tossed it onto the table. I stared dumbly at the ID lying beside the teacup.
“Take it. I think we’re done here.”
Clasping her robe, Christine rose and spoke coldly. I couldn’t move or reply. Silence pressed in until I heard a soft sigh from her. When our eyes met again, her face had softened. She brushed her palm gently across her cheek—though I could feel her fingers tremble. In a conciliatory tone, she said:
“You’re too good-looking to waste.”
She removed her hand and walked away, leaving me at the table.
Perhaps Christine’s mind had been made up the moment she pretended not to notice my tattoo. Or maybe as early as last night. I sipped the now-cold tea, lit the cigarette she’d left behind, and let these thoughts drift: the two photos of Christopher in my mind, her mocking voice, her denial of Hugh and George’s deaths and mine, Christine’s flight from Chadstone, the bloodstained shirt she’d cleaned overnight, my desperate plea for help last night and the confession I’d never shared with anyone else. Then I glared at the empty seat opposite me.
Finishing the teacup, I rose and crossed the polished floor to the entrance. My duffle and shoes had been set neatly there. Slinging on my bag and slipping into my shoes, I opened the door. Barefoot I trudged across the manicured lawn toward the softly splashing pool.
On the diving board stood Christine, wearing a vibrant floral one‐piece with a deep scoop back, framed by the garden’s beauty like a living painting. He faced away, arms lifted overhead, every muscle in his back taut and perfectly sculpted. His thigh muscles flexed, then he dove with grace. I watched from the pool’s edge as Christine sliced through the water.
I’d never told Christine not to live like this—enjoying daytime swims in a gorgeous estate and lavish dinners at expensive restaurants wasn’t something to condemn. So although Christine could refuse to help me, he had no right to mock my life’s path.
In an instant Christine surfaced on the far side, arched, and inhaled deeply. Only after wiping his face did he notice me. He frowned slightly.
“What? Moping by the pool?”
He fussed with a strap of his suit.
“Aren’t we done here?”
Christine climbed out and sat on the edge, drying his face with a towel. I watched, then spat:
“You’re a bastard, Christine. A rude bastard.”
Christine’s body stiffened. He lowered the towel, looked up at me with wide eyes. I stood looming, hands in pockets, glaring.
“I may have looked pathetic yesterday, but I don’t deserve to be treated like an idiot.”
“…”
Christine still looked stunned, mouth half open. I continued, calm but fierce:
“If you don’t want to help, just say so. Don’t make me feel like crap.”
“…”
“And for God’s sake, stop calling me cute. You kill them and then deny it—what, ‘They live on in my heart’? That bullshit, delivered so nonchalantly, is absurd.”
“Oh my. Oh dear. Oh my my.”
Christine uttered exclamations of mock surprise, then rose—her tall, powerful frame all the more imposing in that floral suit.
“You’re hilarious. You begged me for help, I gave you my ear, and now I’m a bastard? Good grief.”
“I asked for help ’cause I needed it. What’s wrong with that? I never threatened you. You’re the one who cracked my head open—who do you think you are?”
“Oh my! You were the one stalking me all over like some psycho. What kind of woman are you?”
“I was asking around—when did I stalk you? Steal your bra or spy on you?”
“Mother of God! Watch your mouth, airing someone’s underwear in public!”
“You patched up the drunk who passed out at your place, and now you’ve got the nerve to yell at me?”
“Get out, you bitch!”
Christine pointed at the gate and yelled. I was going to leave anyway. I glared once more, then strode off—but anger welled up and I glanced back. Christine stood with hands on hips.
“And, damn it, stop calling me cute.”
Without looking back I walked on, only to hear a taunt:
“At least your ass’s cute—I gave you some credit, and you sulk.”
I couldn’t ignore that. Turning, I saw Christine squint and stick out her tongue. That son of a… When he did it, I snapped. Tossing aside bag and shoes, I charged—and plunged into the pool.
We sank nearly to the bottom before thrashing apart and surfacing, coughing. Water dripped from my eyes and I staggered, spluttering as water filled my nose and mouth. Christine, more accustomed to the water, righted himself first and flung water at me.
“You’ve lost it, haven’t you! What the hell are you doing?”
I had no time to answer as waves of water splashed into my mouth and nose. Christine’s powerful arms doused me with relentless sprays, like small waves.
Helpless, I gulped water, flailed my arms, then saw a momentary lull. I lunged, grabbed both his wrists—only to have him twist free and seize my wrist instead. His grip was crushing; I couldn’t break free. Blinking through stinging water, I glared at him. We glared at each other, fierce as predators.
Silence fell, then unexpectedly Christine smiled. My neck hairs stood on end.
“Did you really hate being called cute?”
Christine purred as he closed in, and I backed until my back hit the wall. Underwater his leg wrapped around mine, pulling me closer. His whisper was inches from my nose.
“Why the face? Scared, sweetheart?”
I said nothing and glared. He nipped the tip of my nose and teasingly growled:
“Grrr.”
My wrist was freed as Christine waved me off and backed away in one fluid motion. He vaulted from the pool, droplets splattering. Draping a towel over his shoulder, he called back:
“Don’t even think about showering here. Get lost.”
With ceramic-slap of bare feet, Christine walked away. I floated motionless until I heard the front door close. Only then did I clear my head, release a sigh, and plunge my head beneath the cold water.