Page 105 of Eight of Swords, Part Two

Troy is the man these other men call sir or boss. Riley isn’t sure what he’s supposed to call him. Of the two books he has, one describes parents as Mommy and Daddy. Riley’s never known either, but when he does something wrong, it’s Troy who comes running to stop him, punish him, yell at him. One of the men who lives here once says to Riley, ‘Don’t let your father see you doing that,’ when he’s trying to peer out of a grimy window again.

Your father.

It must be, then.

His father is Troy.

But he is nothing like the Daddy in the book.

He doesn’t come home from work in the evening. That’s when he goes out. He doesn’t cook dinner, someone else always makes it. He doesn’t tell Riley stories. He doesn’t tuck him in and say nice things. He doesn’t check under the bed for monsters.

And there is no Mommy here.

No women.

None.

Riley whispers to himself sometimes when he’s alone but never speaks to anyone else. He gets food three times a day. There have always been clothes for him. He knows how to use the bathroom. His bedroom is warm at night except for a few weeks in winter when nowhere in this place can keep the cold out. Too many windows are broken. Too many doors let in the chill. Riley’s home is tall like a tree. It sways sometimes, breathes when the wind blows hard. He sees no one else his age.

He is all alone in this small, indoor world.

✴

At four years old, Troy starts telling him to speak.

He knows Riley understands because whatever Troy says gets a response with either a nod or a head shake. That doesn’t seem to be good enough anymore. Troy grows increasingly frustrated as the winter wears on and Riley simply will not speak.

‘Maybe he’s... y’know, backwards,’ one of the men suggests quietly one day after Troy gives up for now, irritated.

Troy glares coldly at the man. ‘The fuck you say?’

‘Maybe he didn’t get enough oxygen at birth or whatever. Sometimes the quiet ones are a little reta—’

Troy kills him.

Riley looks up from the little friend he’s made out of dust and hair he finds in corners, a tiny creature called Bunny. He watches impassively as Troy uses a knife to stab the man who said something Riley doesn’t understand or care about. The knife goes in and out of his stomach several times. Troy spits on the body when it falls, glances back at Riley.

‘You’re not backwards,’ he informs him, walking away. ‘You’re lazy. Don’t touch the body. Someone else’ll clean it up.’

Riley stays there, playing with Bunny, watching the vibrant red spread across the dark floor until someone does, in fact, come to clean it up.

✴

At five years old, Troy starts teaching him things.

Not a lot because Troy is always busy. Sometimes he’s gone for four sleeps. That’s the most sleeps he’s ever been away for. A lot of the time, Riley is told, stay in your room, but it’s hard for him. He is desperate to see things, to get close to the world outside that he’s forbidden from. He creeps silently, sneaking down the old stairs no one uses, dark and full of webs.

Hidden, he listens.

Kilos. Purity. Cops. Take him out. Numbers. Endless numbers.

Troy seems to be in charge of everything. The whole world.

Riley quietly echoes his words when alone.

They feel alien and wrong.

Troy comes home with red on him sometimes, other times he’s hurt. Riley knows what hurt is, he sees it in his own skin. The dark clouds under skin that make pain when pressed.