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The empty house sure doesn’t.
The people inside it are only paid by my father to keep their mouths shut. He makes them sign NDAs that would cost them their lives and three generations of their families sold on the black market.
People keep their mouths shut when they’re stuffed with the queen’s bills.
At least, those my father surrounds himself with do.
Our cook didn’t blink an eye when I made a coffee and poured alcohol instead of water. He just nodded and went about his business.
I stand by the huge French window, sipping my coffee and placing a hand in my pocket. You know, like a good upper-middle-class boy with decent grades, a popularity vote under his belt, and a pretty wonderful life.
Everything is laid out before me for the taking – the huge garden, the German cars in the garage, the high positions.
All of it is there.
And yet, it isn’t.
Is it okay to take what you need when you don’t have what you want?
The answer to that is yes, logically speaking, but I’ve been gradually losing that part due to my vodka.
And yes, I do answer my own hypothetical questions. Cole’s philosophy shit is starting to rub off on me.
“What are you doing here? Don’t you have practice?”
I slowly close my eyes, inhaling deeply, before I turn around to face the only family I have left.
The one I wish had disappeared instead of Mum twelve years ago.
My father stands in the middle of the living area, which is filled with renaissance paintings and weird fucking art that he pays hundreds of thousands for at auctions.
Lewis Knight is a man of power in this country, one of the hotshot ministers who not only regulates the economy but also controls it. He’s – wait for it – Secretary of State for Business, Energy, and Industrial Strategy. Phew, I know, that’s a long title, but it goes with his ‘duties’, as he calls them.
You know, like a typical politician.
He’s in his mid-forties with a medium build and thick dark hair that he keeps styled as if he has daily dates with the queen herself. A three-piece suit flatters his frame and gives him a majesty that everyone praises in the media.
He’s one of the popular ones, my father. Spoiler alert, that’s why I get the popularity vote, too. That shit is genetic.
He’s also friends with the ‘IT’ crowd, the first line of the conservative party, who are doing some internal war to crush the upcoming elections and rule the country once again. After more than ten years of consecutive wins, let’s just say it got boring.
A permanent scowl lodges between his thick brows while he looks me up and down as if he objects to my jeans and T-shirt. I should always look presentable, even at home. You never know when those reporters will come to do a field visit.
For as long as I can remember, Dad has always had that look when his gaze falls on me; permanent disapproval of sorts. He’s never approved of me or my existence.
Deep down, he wishes Mum would’ve taken me with her that day. Both of us do a fantastic job ignoring that reality.
If we could turn back time, he’d push me into her car or I would sneak and hide in her boot.
“So?” he insists. “Practice.”
“We don’t have one today.”
“Why?”
“Because we need to rest before our next game.”
He narrows his eyes the slightest bit, then schools his expression. He’s pragmatic that way, my father, suspicious by nature, too. Perhaps that’s why he’s a successful politician. I have no doubt he’ll call the school and make sure my words are accurate.
