Betrayed

(Trent)

What the hell made me think that someone would tell me the whole truth just because they were dead? Geez, shame reaches beyond the grave? More to the point... Linda has a sense of shame?

Weirdly enough, I feel betrayed. Not because she slept with the neighbour boys – I already knew about that. Not because of anything she might have done in that odd foursome. Because she lied to me. What a sap. I get up, grab my wallet, and slam my front door on the way out to the pub.

****

I'm sitting at the bar, deep in irrational but nasty misery. I've just finished ordering another shot of Sambucca, when Linda materialises on the stool beside me.

"HOLY SHIT!" The man who'd been about to sit back down on the stool jumps back. "Oh, sorry, luv, I just didn't see ya come in, ya scared the crap – sorry – outta me!"

Linda smiles sweetly and tells him that's OK. "Would you like your chair back?" she purrs, leaning forward to ensure that he has a good view down her top. He shakes his head slowly as the woman with him looks daggers at her. Linda winks at me, then leans over to the irate woman and whispers to her. Suddenly the snarl on the woman's face disappears, and she smirks.

"What'd you tell her?" I whisper to Linda.

"'It's all fake'", she whispers back.

I laugh. More true than the woman's ever likely to know.

****

(Linda)

I'm back from another Mike-raid. I popped into Mike's cell in the middle of the night. He was fast asleep, and I watched him twitch and mutter while I pondered what I'd do to him next. But I couldn't concentrate. I just felt sad. This schmuck used to be the love of my life. He was strong, manly, uncomplicated. He wanted to protect me, and to fuck, and to eat his bizarre high-protein microwave meals, and that was it. Then Laz and Geordie pranced into our lives, and everything went pear-shaped. Well, honestly? It was probably pear-shaped already. It'd felt good, though, before them. So I did nothing, just came back here. What the hell is the point?

****

(Trent)

Linda reappears in the flat, and immediately melts into a major mope. Right – that's my cue. I'm off to do some investigating far away from here.

****

Five drinks and a couple of black coffees later, I'm at the prison in time for morning visitations. Mike, obviously tense when he walks in, relaxes a little when he sees that it's me.

"Thank God!" he says, and collapses into his plastic moulded chair.

"Who'd you think I might be?"

He shrugs.

"Just about anyone, including a friend of anyone in there." he points behind him with a thumb.

"So," I say, "What do you want me to do? How am I supposed to help you?"

Another visitor is escorted into the room, and sits at a free table at the other side of the room.

"I haven't made many friends here," he says heavily. "In fact, I think I've pissed someone off a lot..."

The other visitor, alone still, removes something from his pocket and points it at Mike.

"Get down!" I yell, every reaction just a bit slow from the alcohol. I shove Mike backwards with the table, his chair overturns, and something smacks into my left shoulder, spinning me around. I smack my head on the table and my shoulder turns into a ball of white-hot pain and everything fades out.

****

(Linda)

Love is never easy.

That's what I kept telling myself every time Mike and I had one of our 'discussions'. You've gotta work at it, make compromises,smooth things down.

Of course, Mike's idea of 'working at it' was to fuck more, and to bring me flowers. Sweet, but kinda missing the point when the main problem was that he spent money like a millionaire, but his house was always on the point of being repossessed because he 'forgot' to make the repayments. Moron. Yeah, I could've made them for him, I know. But why the hell should I finance his bad habits? Hard work and sensible spending got me where I am today. Where I was, I mean.

Things were OK, though, you know? Then one moonlit night we were sitting on the little balcony outside Mike's bedroom, watching our neighbours' regular Kama Sutra show and quietly giving each effort a score, and arguing in whispers about when each particular 'performance' ended and began. Mike turned to me and he said, very casually, "Baby, do you think they'd let us join in?"

That was the beginning of the end – to quote Shakespeare or some other dead writing guy.

Oh, fuck. Gotta go – something's happening.

(Trent)

"OI!!!!"

The black fades away. Linda has me by the shoulders, and she's shaking me and screaming in my face.

"Wha..?"

"Don't you DARE fucking die, arsehole! I need you! DON'T fucking die! Get BACK!"

There's no more black, no more pain, just Linda and a light that's getting brighter and brighter.

"GET! BACK! NOW!"

She's stopped shaking me, she's shoving me backwards, and I'm so tired, and the light starts to dim into blackness again.

****

God. The light's getting brighter again, and a male voice is calling my name. Can't people leave me the fuck alone? I open my eyes and raise my hands to shove away the annoying git shining a light into my eyes, and scream with pain. My left shoulder is white-hot with pain again, and pokers of pain are stabbing into my neck and down my arm.

"FUCK!" I yell.

"DON'T. MOVE!" the man shouts at me, and I'm happy to do what I'm told.

I blink, and breathe, and calm down a bit. The room's bright white everywhere – walls, ceiling, sheets. I'm in a bed. Hospital?

"You had an accident at the jail, Mr French," the man says.

I shake my head.

"I was shot," I say, remembering the stranger with the gun.

The man nods.

"In the shoulder. We've operated and removed the bullet, but you'll need to be careful of it while it's healing," he says.

Yeah. I'd noticed that bit.