Keeping 13: Boys of Tommen #2
Keeping 13: Chapter 8

‘I need you to keep your head,’ Dad instructed as he walked down the corridor of CUH to ward 1A with his hand clamped on the back of my arm. ‘No outbursts,’ he added in a low tone. ‘And for the love of god, no accusations.’

‘What’s there to accuse?’ I growled, hobbling along with my crutches. ‘We both know what happened to her.’ Like I told him. Like I told everyone. ‘Jesus, he put her in the fucking hospital, Da!’

‘Johnny –’ Pulling me to a stop in the middle of a bustling corridor, Dad pinched his brow and then turned to look at me. ‘You’re upset, I understand. I get it. I’m sorry for doubting you, okay? You were right and I was wrong, but this –’ he waved a hand around, gesturing to where we were standing, ‘is a sensitive situation – one you have zero experience with. This is a domestic violence issue, Jonathon. The Gardaí and social services will already be all over this. Do you understand? There will be a criminal investigation – one you cannot interfere with. Emotions will be running high and the last thing you need to do is run in there all guns a-blazing. It might feel good and justifiable, but it won’t help Shannon in the long run. So, if you want to see her then I strongly suggest you keep your opinions and feelings to yourself, and let me do the talking.’

I gaped at him. ‘I’m going to see her, there’s no if about it.’ My father gave a look that said not likely. ‘I am going to see her, Da,’ I repeated, furious.

‘Then keep your head and don’t bulldoze,’ he replied before releasing my arm and walking on ahead of me.

Glaring at the back of his head, I adjusted my crutches and hurried to catch up. ‘I don’t bleeding bulldoze.’

I rounded the corner, hunting my father’s silhouette as he slipped through another set of double doors and out of sight.

Fuck my dick and these bleeding crutches.

He was clearly walking ahead of me on purpose. He wanted to get there before me so he could assess the situation in that cool, unfeeling, calculated way of his without his headstrong son there to make a hash of things.

When I finally caught sight of him again, standing at the nurses’ station at the far end of the long corridor, I upped my pace, using my upper body strength to sling myself along on the metal sticks, peeking through the glass windows of each door as I went.

I was passing the sixth door on the left when my body came to an abrupt halt and my heart jackknifed in my chest.

Shannon was lying on the bed with her eyes closed and her hands tucked under her cheek.

She was facing the door, and at the sight of her, I had to stop and catch my breath.

A million and one emotions battered through me as my eyes took in the bruising dusting her face. She was black and blue to the point of being almost unrecognizable. Almost. I’d know that face anywhere.

I felt it now; the deep sense of guilt drowning me. The sadness on her face every time I dropped her back to that house. The fear in her eyes when I knocked on her door that first time – the second and third time, too. She was always so skittish, so demure and obliging. She asked permission for just about everything. She wasn’t allowed to go anywhere. She told me that once – said her folks were protective. But she went with me anyway.

‘Can you save me?’

‘Do you need me to save you?’

‘Mmm hmm.’

‘What happened here? What’s this from?’

‘My dad.’

The signs were there, had been for months, and I just bulldozed past them. My eyes were open but I had been looking in the wrong direction. I didn’t hear her. I didn’t listen. I didn’t pay enough attention. I didn’t take it in, I didn’t see the hints, I couldn’t hear the cries for help, but I was hearing and seeing them now.

And now? She was lying in this hospital bed because I kissed her. Because I kissed the shite out of her and got us into trouble. That’s what Joey had said. Their father did this because she was messing around with me.

My mind drifted to Joey. Every time I’d met Shannon’s brother he’d been sporting some fresh bruise on his face. I never thought twice about it, though. I had just put it down to Hurling and brushed it under the table. God knows I spent most of my time nursing wounds. But this? My father was right. I could never understand this.

My heart galloped wildly in my chest, my hand moving of its own accord, as I reached out and clicked open the door. Casting a quick glance towards my father, who was still at the nurses’ station, speaking to who I presumed was the ward sister, I pushed the door open and slipped inside.