Chapter 1

Rachel Higgins was a small girl. At sixteen, she had the body and looks of a twelve year old. Flat-chested, she was thin, and gangly. She stood at maybe five-two, but seemed smaller, because she'd walk fast, her head down, her long auburn hair covering her face, and she wore glasses. She was incredibly bright, with an I.Q that made Einstein look like a coal miner, I heard on the neighbourhood grapevine, and she was so painfully shy, it was a shame to see her literally run from human contact.

She lived with her Mom and Dad a few doors down from me. My grandfather had bought the house I'm living in as a wedding present for my parents, and I was born and raised in it. Now, it was mine, and freehold.

Let me tell you a little about myself. My name is Alfred Marks, Alfie to my friends and my not-friends can call me what they like, I don't care. I'm six-two, wide shoulders tapering to a slim (ish) waist, and I work by doing odd jobs and casual work here in my home town. Even with the economy the way it is, I never go hungry, or miss a bill payment.

When my parents died when I was seventeen, their insurance paid off the house, and I have to tell you, don't always believe what the press tell you about bank managers, because the bank manager here in town took me into his office, sat me down, and explained to me how much was in my parents bank accounts, and gave me options on how to invest it. Good business practice, I thought. The money stayed in his bank, he got a cut from my investments in the way of interest, and I ultimately made on the deal.

So, at thirty-three, I could live comfortably if I wanted to. But, sitting on your ass all day is boring, and I liked to keep busy with my hands, as it also kept my mind busy as well. I won't tell you how much I have in the bank, but you can bet I really don't need to work. Let's just leave it at that, shall we?

I'm single, and prefer it that way. I suppose you could get all psychotherapist about it, and say that I was afraid that I'd turn out like my old man, but, I drank beer on occasion, though I usually stopped after about a half-dozen or so. I also drank white wine sometimes, just to treat myself at the dinner table. I don't like red wine, I never developed a taste for it.

Like I said, both my parents died when I was seventeen, killed in a car wreck. My dad, an asshole at home, and a perfect gentleman away from it, took my Mom out of town to go on a drinking binge with his buddies, lowlife's and losers, every one of them. He did that on a regular basis, so no-one who knew him in town would know what he was really like.

People in town thought he was a regular guy, clean and sober, happy-go-lucky, but he was a devil in disguise, and made my Mom's and my life a living nightmare. He was an ugly violent drunk.

He would always force my Mom to go along, and leave me at home. He hated me. He blamed me for a lot of things while he was alive, one of them being the fact that I was an only child. Mom had got pregnant again when I was nearly sixteen, but the baby, a girl, had died the next day, they told us, and a nurse had taken the body away, and strangely, she never showed up for work the next day, telling Personnel that she was too traumatised by watching the baby die, so it was an empty casket we buried. Mom had complications during the birth, and to save her life, the doctors had to do a hysterectomy on her.

Dad, when he got drunk at home, which seemed to be all the time, would rant and rave at me, making me, a terrified young man, or teenager, take your pick, stand at the kitchen table and force me to listen to him yelling, telling me I had 'gutted' his mother, and I'd 'fucked up everything' for him. He had wanted a daughter, he used to cry into his booze, and I found out years later why. If he was still alive, I'd have killed him anyway.

I never knew what they did when Dad would force Mom to go with him, but he'd bring her home late at night, then while she'd run to the bathroom and make herself vomit into the toilet bowl, he'd be strutting around, cock-of-the-walk, and sneer at my Mom, telling her she was a 'cunt who'd got what she'd deserved', and mock her attempts to get clean, and she would spend hours in the bath, scrubbing herself, and weeping in shame.

It took me years to understand what that ammonia smell was that she'd reek of when she came home. Her face, hair, and clothes would be smeared, soaked, and matted with the stuff.

When Mom and Dad was coming home that last time, he was so drunk that no-one could understand how far they'd got before the wreck took their lives. He was literally pickled in alcohol. The car failed to take a corner, and went through a crash barrier, and plunged a hundred and twenty feet straight down like a falling star, and there literally wasn't much to save. The coroner found a large amount of seminal fluid in my Mom's vagina, and lots of it in her belly.

I managed to get my hands on the crash report, and the autopsy file, and they counted nineteen different sperm donors that had had their turn with my Mom. I wanted to dig the bastard up, and burn his bones to ashes, and then start all over again, I was that furious.

I went through the house afterward, and took everything that was his, and made a bonfire out of it, and I felt real good about doing so. I erased his memory from my house.

Rest in peace, Mom. You earned it the hard way, and I'm sorry I didn't know.

I used to watch Rachel over the years as she grew up, and she would always without fail get off the school bus, and hurry into her house, and the kids on the bus would jeer and hoot at her, the girls being the loudest. They'd throw insults and comments after her, and her face would always be red from shame, and most times, she'd be crying.

I never saw her parents much. When her dad would come out to mow his lawn, or do outside chores, he'd never smile, and then disappear back inside fast. Her Mom was a blowsy woman the wrong side of forty, and it always looked to me like a cigarette was nailed to her lips. Occasionally, I would hear screaming coming from the house, but it would quickly stop, and I'd wonder what Rachel's Mom was getting her britches in a twist about this time.

I felt sorry for her. But what could I do? I was a single man, and I'd get a hollow feeling in my gut when I witnessed her daily humiliation.

I'd go for walks sometimes in the early evenings, greet my neighbours and stop and talk to them, then carry on, lost in my thoughts. I always ended up at the park, where I would sit at a picnic table, and watch the few families that would congregate there, and sometimes, a family that I'd known most of my life would offer me something to eat or drink, and we'd chat, while the children played.

Most times, one child or another would come up to me, and hold their hands out, girls mainly, and I'd pick them up and sit them on my knee. You'd be surprised at the depth of conversation you'd have with six year olds!

Every now and then, one of the young girls of the neighbourhood would come down with a bad crush on me, sometimes it didn't last long, and they'd find a new boy-band to cry over, and sometimes, I'd have to have a talk with a parent or two, and there'd be tears, but they were made to understand the ramifications of wanting to give themselves to me, an older man, and the laws involved.

It was flattering, I suppose, when I'd have a girl or two, or three, standing outside my gate, sometimes for hours, trying to get me to notice them. One girl went so far as to wear clothes that were so small and tight on her, it was embarrassing. But, I managed to send her home, and told her I wouldn't tell anyone, and thanked her for the effort, and that I was grateful she'd tried to look nice for me. I had a laugh over it, but damn, it was sure tempting!

Rachel's family was 'new' in the neighbourhood, meaning she hadn't been born there. There were rumours floating around, each person giving their theory about where the Higginses came from, what their previous lives were, but as the family didn't mix with anyone, and kept to themselves, conjecture reigned supreme.

No-one knew what their problem was, and they sure didn't go out of their way to mix with anyone either. But, on the odd occasion that Rachel would come out of her house, and stand on the front lawn, she'd have a look of longing on her face, she'd gaze at the houses, and her neighbours, and then her eyes would tear up, and she'd hang her head and go back inside, her Mom standing on the porch glaring at her.

We didn't even know when her birthday rolled around. There were no parties, no sleep-overs, no friends come to visit. Everybody on the planet may as well not have existed.

Sometimes, as she'd be going home, having been made to get off at the stop before hers by the ravening pack on the bus as a joke, which I didn't think was funny, as she hurried past my house, and if I was outside, I'd wave and call out, "Hi, Rachel! Nice to see you!"

At first, she ignored me, tucked her head down more, and walked faster. Then, I noticed she'd flick glances my way, and one day a miracle occurred, and the sun stopped its forward movement.

She smiled!

It was a brief one, a microsecond's worth, but it was a smile, a good start.

I knew the lonely girl was sixteen, because when the Higgins family moved into the neighbourhood, Mrs Higgins was loudly showing off her cute little three year old to the women who'd come over to welcome them. Mrs Higgins was by herself at the time, and she tried to get a group of mothers together, but she began to use psychological tactics on them, playing them off against each other, and became bullying.

Mr Higgins turned up a few months later, and he was dropped off in a prison van. Not a good look, or a good impression to make in front of our little community. He ruled the roost as bad as she did, and from then on, they kept to themselves, and everybody was to blame.

One day, I heard a yelling match in the 'Hell house', as their house was called, and Rachel came out, shut the front door, and sat on the front steps. She hung her head, and I could see her shoulders shaking, and I knew she was crying again.

So, I cut some flowers, and tying them with a blade of grass, I casually walked past her house, quickly placed the bouquet on their lawn, and just as casually walked back to my gate, leaning on it. Then I stood there, pretending to look the other way. She had watched me, and giving the door a quick glance, making sure her jailors weren't watching, she got up, darted down to the flowers, picked them up, smelled them, and she turned her head, raised her chin, and gave me a big bright smile. She hugged the blooms to her chest, and rushed back to her seat.

Then her mother came barging out the front door, and grabbed her arm, hauling her to her feet. She noticed the flowers in Rachel's hand, and growled, "You got a boyfriend, you little slut? If you have, I'll fucking kill you, and your horny fucking dog boyfriend!"

My face went hard, and I began to stand erect, willing to take a hand if she went violent on the poor girl. Rachel cringed, and stammered, "No, Mom! Honest! I asked Mr Marks over there if I could have some, I thought you'd want them, they're so pretty!"

Her eyes went to me, silently begging me for help. I walked up to her Mom, and she watched me like a predator watching her prey, her blue eyes hard, no pity there at all.

I stood there loose and easy, and fixed this ugly-spirited woman with a hard look of my own. I'd spent five years in the Army, and it wasn't behind a desk, either. I'd retired Sargent, and still had my uniform in the closet, put away, but not forgotten.

There was a battle of wills between us, and she stood there, and began to squeeze Rachel's arm, making her whimper softly. She couldn't hurt me, so like the bully she was, she was taking it out on her own daughter.

Then Mrs Higgins broke contact with my eyes, and looked at the crying girl, and spat, "Go ahead, slut! Keep your fucking weeds! I hate flowers!" Then she turned to me, and as she opened her mouth to say something, I said, "Any time you want some flowers Rachel, you just help yourself, you hear me, now? It's alright; you take as many as makes you happy!"

Then Mrs Higgins stormed inside, dragging Rachel like a rag doll, and slammed the door behind her.

Then one day, both our lives changed. I think maybe Divine Providence stepped in and took a hand.

I was in my garden, doing some weeding, thinking of my mother, and then I heard a scream, and Rachel's voice yelled, "No! Leave me alone! I'm not going anywhere with you!", and then she was running for the dubious shelter of her house. I looked up, and one of the teenaged boys who lived down the street chased her, yelling, "You get back here, jailbird! I'll teach you what a real man can do!"

I knew him. He was Freddy Winton, he was seventeen, and his Dad was a pot-bellied beer-swilling 'good ol' boy', and had the attitude to match. Both father and son were losers, and Freddy was even worse that his father, a dope smoking vicious little cockroach.

As she passed me, Freddy was a couple of steps behind her, and I swung my arm out and clothes-lined him. His feet left the ground, and with a bounce and a 'whoof' of air leaving his lungs, he hit the sidewalk on his back, and his head hit the concrete with a thud.

He sat up, both of his hands going to his head, howling in pain. "You fucking queer bastard!" he screamed at me, and then he looked up, and saw Rachel running at him. She had a look of sheer rage on her face, her eyes hard, and she was terrible in her fury. She ran at him, her school uniform skirt flying around her legs, gave a skip, and then her sneaker-encased foot flew up toward his head, and Freddy went to roll out of the way but her foot connected with the side of his jaw with a loud thump!, and he rocked back, righted himself, and then his eyes rolled up into his head, and he flopped sideways, unconscious!

"Holy shit!" Rachel breathed, staring in amazement and not believing she'd had the courage to do that!

I stared at the sleeping boy, stepping up to her, put my arm around her shoulders, and without a second thought, she leaned into me, and put her arm around my waist.

"Rachel!" I said, stunned, "that was magnificent! I'm really proud of you!"

She stiffened under my arm, realised what we were doing, and she dropped her arm, stepping back away from me, shooting a look at her house. Then she looked at the bundle of meanness lying on the ground, she shuddered even though it was warm, and in a fearful voice, told me she was in so much trouble now.

I told her not to worry, this piece if trash had it coming, and when his daddy found out he was beat up by a girl, he'd have hide up in the Artic, he'd be so humiliated!

Rachel hesitated, and I assured her it was fine, to go home, and I'd take care of cleaning up the street. She gave me a grateful look, and went to walk away, but stopped, and looked back at me. "Did you mean what you said?" she asked.

"What? That I was proud of you? Of course I did! You stood up for yourself, and you fought back! Never let anyone put you down, Rachel. One day, you're not going to get back up again, and the world will be a sadder place with you gone!"

She stood taller and slowly walked back to her house, and she was smiling openly, for the first time in years.

I picked up the sleeping teen, and put him on my shoulders in a fireman's lift, and walked back to his house. The boy was rank with marijuana tar fumes, stale sweat and urine. When I got there, his father and a couple of buddies of his were in the garage, drinking beer and listening to country music. His father, Tom Winton, stood about five- seven, was obese, and was waddling toward me, bellowing, "What you done to my boy, queer?" I dropped his 'boy' on his driveway with a thump, and began to roll the sleeves of my shirt up. Tom Winton stopped, looking at my muscles, his buddies stood behind him, and only one of them looked even remotely like getting serious.

"First, asshole", I growled, "I'm not queer, and I'll thank you to remember it! Second, he was beat up by a girl, for trying to molest her! He got what was coming to him, and I was just cleaning up the trash!"

Then I stepped up to him, and looked down into his sweating face. He stank! Body odour was coming off him in waves, and I had to swallow to get the taste out of my mouth, and I wanted to spit.

Tom Winton looked at the still form of his boy, and he growled, "He got beat up by a piece of tail? I'm going to have to teach that boy a lesson he won't soon forget!"

"Tom Winton", I told him, pushing him with a finger, making him rock on his heels, "he touches any girl in a bad way, and I'm coming for him! Then, I'm coming for you!" I looked at his buddies, and gave them my hardest glare, and told them, "I'll be coming for anyone who disrespects girls!"

They wisely chose not to say anything.

Then I turned around and walked away, and left them to argue the merits of what I'd told them.

By the time I'd reached the street, I was grinning, remembering the kick Rachel had given that sorry lump of dung still asleep behind me!

There was a loud screaming match again that night at the Higgins place, and this time, there was another voice involved! I could hear Rachel's voice, even in my living room, three houses down. I couldn't of course hear the exact words, but the argument was a doozy.